Starless
by Surburia
Summary: <html><head></head>Scar survives the hyena attack, but is left in no state to reclaim his throne. Unable to leave the Pridelands, his survival will depend on Simba's ability to forgive, and his own wits. Simba struggles with his new responsibilities and the demons in his past. A story of redemption or destruction and what falls between.</html>
1. Chapter 1

Simba's claws retracted from Scar's shoulders, and sent him flailing into the darkness. In that moment, the smallest regret filled his darkened heart and rippled outwards through his core like a tremor. He clawed at the sudden night in front of him.

There were no stars. He twisted around, the heat burrowing into his pelt. No stars. The great kings weren't watching. Mufasa couldn't see. His father couldn't see. The smoke obscured everything. Simba stood above him, his teeth a tear of white against his golden fur. He didn't understand what he felt in that moment- a singular strange entity among the bevy of emotions that refused to resonate. Only later would that small rumble be perceived. The damage would spread in deep cracks and ravines throughout him, resurfacing everything he had ever known.

Hissing and howling rose from below him. Fire tore through the bracken and waste. His pride stood above him, rows upon rows of lions- deep gashes of fanged grins. Simba stood in front. Everything rushed forward in a spray of grays and blues, and reds as he collided with the dirt.

He gasped for air. With broken slowness he stood. The growls seemed like ghosts in the darkness; a whisper in the void. To his left. To his right. A branch snapped as the hyenas emerged from the smoke, their coats caked in blood and dust from the fighting.

"Ah my friends," he said. Fire glinted against their nails. Fighting Simba earlier had exhausted him, left the muscles in his shoulders trembling, but he stood and willed his stance to evoke authority. They still belonged to him. He didn't want to fight, but the fire was encroaching. The smoke stung his eyes. The whispered growls and threats saturated the air as thick as the coming rain. Thunder rolled somewhere above, and he looked upwards. Still no stars. Shenzi, her eyes red beads in the glow, stepped forward.

"I thought he said we were the enemy," she said.

His army comprised of shining teeth, and rending claws came to surround him. His heart stammered. He bared his teeth and claws. He was authority. He was their king. His backs legs quivered. He didn't want to acknowledge that it was anything more than exhaustion. He backed up, his tail brushing against the sheer rock wall behind him. He fumbled for words, more lost than he'd ever felt, his wit, his logic, his planning failing him at last, and all he could utter was no, no, no, you don't understand. Let me explain.

But there was nothing to explain. Everything had gone to hell, much too quickly, and his thoughts gave way to fear and rooted him to the spot. The flames and smoke rose high into the air. The sky opened and he could see through the smoke a starless sky, empty of its great kings. He knew that in death he would be obliterated.

Hot breath pushed against his face, stinking of rotting meat and decay. The abyss of darkness before him was so completely quiet, like the sky that the clouds once again swallowed. The shaking of his limbs, the burn across his face where Simba's paw had hit him, the dirt against his paw, the raw fire burning his flank, he wanted it all. He wanted more than utter calm and oblivion. He prospered in blood, and pain, in uncertainty. In himself. To lose it all to that golden king who stood above him cheering his death, his brother's son brought back from the dead and that these hyenas had failed to kill, was too much.

His skin boiled as if his fur had caught fire, and a sharp pain deep in his shoulder bit at his ire as the first hyena lunged. The world turned red, and he ripped into his attacker. His claws tore through flesh, and snapped bones. He beat them off. He tasted blood. He smelled it in the air, and all around him there was whimpering as they fell at his feet. The first rain drops sputtered from the sky, and the fire sizzled and popped around him, angry and enflamed, fighting an enemy sure to snuff it out.

His teeth dug into another throat. A sharp stab to his back leg and a snap almost brought him to the ground. He clawed his attacker, the hyena's teeth sunken into the muscle of his leg, and sent the whimpering beast running. But they continued to emerge. They'd never be able to say he lacked tenacity.

If he could get to Shenzi he could make them stop, but they flitted though the darkness and the smoke like shadows. His senses were dulled by it, but he knew her scent. She had been his go-between.

He lurched through the hyenas, and caught her scent at last. She was standing above the others, directing the fighting. A horde descended upon him before he could reach her. He couldn't see through the blood that ran from his torn ear. He twisted under them, sinking low to the ground and protecting his stomach. He lessoned his struggles, and as he hoped, they backed away. He must look dead, his body awash in blood. She wouldn't be able to tell. He forced himself to slow his breathing. His muzzle was scratched and bloody and stinging in the smoke. He watched Shenzi drop cautiously from her place and walk towards him.

"He's dead," she said. Not quite a question. "How anticlimactic."

She drew closer, still keeping her distance and stepped around the blood and pink froth that had dribbled from the hyenas' fangs. He could feel his energy returning, the ache in his lungs less pronounced and filled by other pains. He listened to her pawsteps circling his body. She might try to hurt him, and he readied himself for the pain, readied himself to remain inert. Power surged through his muscles. He kept his eyes locked on the rock above him. Hyenas growled, and he could see their feet move in and out of his vision. They circled him in much the same as way as Snenzi. His eyes watered.

"You," he heard, "make sure he's dead," and then she was directly in front of him, still too far for to him to reach. If he could propel himself forward he would have her. He felt the hyenas shift around him. His throat burned against the whisper of air he pulled in as the smoke poured down from the burning detritus. He fought his twitching muscles, and the need to breathe. She leaned close, her throat exposed.

With all of his remaining power he lunged towards her. There was no time for her to react, and he knew he had her. The hyena she had instructed moved at the same time. He barked as his target lurched , but he was fast and he dug his fangs into Scar's throat.

Scar grunted as the fangs sank into his mane just as his own teeth latched around Shenzi's neck. She pulled back in surprise. Blood leaked into his mouth, but he knew what he was doing and the damage was superficial. He tightened his bite, blocking her airway, and she whimpered and shivered under the vice of his jaw.

"Call him off," he said, his voice wispy, and muffled by her fur and constricted by the jaws around his own throat. The hyenas around him barked, and cackled, snapping at his haunches. "Call them off," he said, this time biting down into her flesh. More blood ran from his muzzle dripping onto the dirt below them. "I'll kill you," he said, "now call them off."

She froze in his grip.

"Stop," she whispered.

"Louder," he said.

"Stop," she shouted, hoarse from the smoke, and her wounds. "Back off," she said.

Thunder resounded in the background. The hyena underneath him unlatched his jaws and backed away.

The muscles in Scar's jaw shook, and he knew he was close to collapsing, but he couldn't let her know. Just a few more minutes.

"Send them away," he said.

She growled, and he felt the reverberation.

"I'm losing my patience Shenzi. I'll bite straight through your windpipe if you don't dismiss them this second."

"You'll be dead soon enough," she whispered.

"Lions lock their jaws in death," he said. "You'll suffocate, long and slow. You'll suffer for hours, days." He could smell her fear through the acrid fire.

"Back to base," she said and wilted in his grip. He heard snapping of branches in the distance. The stench of rotting meat faded. He found he could barely hold on. His back leg protested the awkward position. Blood ran into is eyes; it filled his mouth.

"Leave now and I won't kill you," he said. "But, if I let you live, you still work for me." His jaws loosened, and he felt himself drifting, his own body distant. "I bite through your neck, or you work for me," he said, his voice echoing weakly, the throb of his own heartbeat, dulling all other sound. He didn't have the strength to kill her. His head dropped from her throat. She spat and bit his ear. He barely felt it. When he looked up she was gone. The night crackled, the fire still burning.

"Demon," she had said.

The rain fell in torrents, and he felt himself weakening, sinking into the rush of water under his feet, a great deluge breaking. The fire around him succumbed and went up in thick suffocating swirls of smoke. The sky was covered in clouds. Rain droplets stung against his many wounds. His back leg protested the weight he demanded it should support. It shivered and trembled. His shoulders stung and burned and his breathes came in fast gasps. He pulled himself into the bracken and collapsed in a small dark cave underneath Pride Rock. The blood in his body seemed to turn to sludge as the fire outside extinguished. It would smoke for days he thought, but it would go out.

**A/N I suppose the seeds of this story originated sometime back in 1994. I guess you could say the story has been stewing for the last twenty or so years. I can't tell you where it's going to go, but I have some ideas in mind. Tell me what you think. Thoughts, critiques. Hated it loved it. Noticed my butchering of commas/the English language and want to help (laugh at) me, anything and everything. Just shoot me a review.**

**Edit: 10/20/14 Taking advice from some great reviewers from The Reviews Lounge, Too, I've cut a lot of excess from this first chapter. I think it flows better then before. **


	2. Chapter 2

Beams of sunlight filtered in through the burnt branches and roots that surrounded the entrance to the small fissure of jagged rocks and dirt he had clambered into the night before. Light fell against his paw, the hair matted in blood, his own and the hyenas, maybe even Simba's. He heard the snuffling of some creature near the outside of the cave and his stomach growled, but when he tried to stand, he found that his joints were stiff. He hissed, choking on a ragged breath. He didn't know how long he had been asleep, unconscious, because he had slept without dreaming as if darkness had oozed into his bones and made him its own as soon as he collapsed to the solid ground.

He commanded himself to stand, to fight the pain in his body; the throbbing in his back leg that balked as he struggled to his feet. Before crumpling again, he lowered himself down. Apprehensive of the damage, he inspected the wound. It was swollen and black with dried blood. The hyena had snapped the bone like dry wood cracking under his own paw. It was a death sentence. The wound would kill him slowly if he didn't do something about it. He inspected his other injuries: more superficial than his leg, but some still oozed blood. He put a paw to his torn ear and rubbed the blood between the pads on his paw before wiping it though the dirt of the cave floor.

The hyenas might be out looking for him. Shenzi would want revenge. He had made her look like a fool, and he needed to get somewhere safe, somewhere that he could recover, take care of the worst of his wounds, and formulate a new plan. If he was going to dethrone Simba it would take some planning, and to do it alone would be difficult, but after dealing with the hyenas for months on end, watching their loyalty slowly decay as their insatiable need for food destroyed and blackened his kingdom, the idea of working alone became more appealing. It wasn't something he could dismiss anymore. If it wasn't for them he wouldn't be in this predicament.

In his reign he had taken time to survey the outer limits of his kingdom, remembering the steps that he had followed when he was a cub walking far behind his father and his golden brother, back before his recklessness had come to define him by the sharp red scar that lanced across his left eye.

His vision was intact, but a bit blurred, nowhere near as sharp as his right eye. His coordination was effected, and he did everything he could to hide any handicap the injury had given him. When Taka had become Scar, his father had told him the mark across his eye would be a reminder of his recklessness, his carelessness, and looking now at his patchwork pelt, his broken leg, he could hear his father's voice once again, deep and commanding, the deep echo of condemnation, rising like a spectre from his oldest memories. He clenched his jaw until the wound across his snout throbbed. His other senses more than made up for the slight impediment of his eye. He found he could smell prey much farther away than his brother ever could, he could hear it too seconds before his brother even had an inkling.

He pricked his ears at the sound of pawsteps outside his hideaway. Something stepped over broken sticks and debris from the battle. Nala. He recognized her scent instantly. He sniffed his own coat. He smelled of fire, a good disguise against her superior senses. He could ambush her, but he knew he wouldn't stand a chance. She was lithe and agile, one of the best hunters and trackers. He could only assume that she had been the one to find Simba, almost as if she had resurrected him from the dead. He pushed himself farther into the cave until his body was parallel to the crags and jutting stones of the back of the enclosure, and knelt, his body protesting the moment. Cowering like a cub, he berated himself, but he would be dead if she caught his scent.

He didn't think she would be his executioner, but she would delight in bringing him before Simba, letting him finish the job he had so easily left to the Hyenas, and it wouldn't take much in his state. The world had turned against him completely this time. He would need to ingratiate himself if he were to survive, gain their sympathy, their pity.

Nala's footfalls stopped outside of the cave. Did she have his scent? He smelled like blood too, something dead, rotten, most lions would stay away from such a harbinger, but he heard her rooting around pushing her nose through the burnt underbrush. He unsheathed his claws, and flattened himself against the dirt, his lissome form almost obscured by the shadows. If he could talk to her, maybe, he could gain the upper hand. If he could get her to listen to him for a moment then he might stand a chance. But to get her alone would be the only way. They were so close to Pride Rock that she could easily signal the other lions. He assumed Simba had sent the other lionesses out to search for food.

With the rainfall the night before, the watering hole to the south would be filled once again attracting the animals that had drifted away in the drought that had plagued his reign. Most of the pride would be located in that area. Simba would be eager to look over his kingdom. Scar wondered how far he would distance himself from his childhood mate.

Revealing himself would be a gamble. He knew she would react in fright and anger. He wouldn't stand must of a chance of fending her off, not with his leg the way it was. He would have to be swift, say what he needed to say, bring her to his side, if anything sow a seed that was sure to take root and flourish. She was his best bet of reaching Simba and Simba wouldn't go against his mate, would fall useless to her green eyes, and if all went well she would plead his cause.

She had hardened over the years that Simba had been absent; the pudgy, curious cub, growing into a sleek, murderous, willful, lioness. She was shrewd. She would be hard to trick. And now she had everything she had ever wanted. She would be near impossible to play, unless he could convince her there was something missing, something that he could provide her with.

He saw her whiskers, and then her nose poke into the den. Before he could decide whether it would be better to confront her in the open of the savanna or in the cave she pushed herself fully inwards, and then stopped. She looked to the back of the cave, and his breath hitched. He readied himself and prepared to push off from his right leg. It would be an awkward approach, sure to leave him open, but he had little to no other choice if she decided to go on the offensive.

"What are you?" she said after a minute. Accusatory, like he was something murky and dead, unrecognizable by sight or scent. She stood straight, but not ready to pounce, her tail lashed back and forth against the cave floor. Sunlight bathed her coat, dappled through the overhang of dead branches.

"Nala," he said weakly. Part of an act, he didn't want to acknowledge the state of his voice, stripped of its power by the smoke he had inhaled, raspy and effete. She stepped back, as if his weak lilting word had frightened her. She still didn't recognize him. Had he changed so much? But her fear quickly faded replaced by incredulity.

"You're alive," she said with disdain, hatred, and then ducked down into a stance of threat, nails scratching the dirt, shoulders lower than her haunches, ears back against her skull, tail lashing angrily against the sides of the cave.

"I can't believe it," she said. "We saw you fall, we saw the hyenas. Of course you would survive." She hissed, and stepped forwards, shifting back and forth on her front paws. She was sizing him up, like any good hunter, looking for a weak point, the best place to land where she could make her killing bite. Her tail flitted in and out of the spotted sunlight. He decided to appear as weak and nonthreatening as possible, and remained still, his head resting against his paws. He turned his gaze feebly in her direction.

"As you can see, they mostly succeeded," he said and then silence filled the cave.

"I should finish the job," she said. He was struck by the violence in her stance, in the vicious inflection of her words. She would kill him if he gave her the opportunity. One wrong word and she would be upon him. "I only hesitate because Simba wouldn't want me to."

"I'm amazed," he drawled. "Simba's seen the error of his ways?"

"No," she said and took a step towards him. "I wouldn't deny him the opportunity to finish you himself."

"My, my, what a little bloodthirsty picture of domesticity you two make. A marriage christened in blood and patricide."

"You can't say that." She growled. "How dare you accuse Simba of your crimes? And here you are still clinging to life like the cockroach you are."

He pushed himself closer to the wall, preparing for her coming attack.

"How do you live with yourself? You let us starve. You hurt us, abused us, and destroyed our home. You would have wiped us out if I hadn't found Simba."

"Listen to me," he tried to interject but his voice fell before the low angry growl of Nala's words.

"If I hadn't brought him back we would have all suffered your fate. You shouldn't be here any longer. Simba already thinks you're dead," she said and stepped closer. "He told me after the fire went out how relieved he was that you were gone, that you had burned up in that fire like the evil thing you are. And Mufasa, I don't know how I didn't realize it before…" her voice trailed off, ending in a low threatening growl.

Scar remained motionless, all but for his front claws which scratched the dirt in front of him, making deep gouges down into the cave floor. He would have to be quick, catch her off guard, disarm her. "Speaking of fathers," he said. "I hear, you never knew yours."

She was still in her crouch, this time she snarled. "Don't mention him," she said.

"Oh, but a father is indispensable, wouldn't you say? What it must be like to grow up without his influence, without paternal guidance. That's something that unites you and Simba isn't it? A lack of a father figur-" He gasped for breath as she leapt, her weight pinning him to the ground, one foot against his throat, the exact same position Simba had taken when he forced his confession from him. Her paw pushed down onto his raw throat, and his vision dimmed to narrow tunnels.

"Mufa-" he struggled to say, but her paw pressed harder against his throat.

Nala's eyes, her green eyes, looking down into his. His heart thrummed in his ears, louder than his gasping breathes.

"Don't you _dare_ mention Mufasa," she said.

He twisted under her grip and pulled his feet inwards, raking his claws against her underside as he scrambled against her hold. Unfazed she lowered her gaze so she was looking into his eyes. He gasped in pain as her back foot pushed against his injured leg. Her face dulled before him.

"You'll never say that name again," she said.

"Father-," he said. And she growled, showing her teeth, and pushed her paw harder against his windpipe. His vision began to dull and fade, list away from him, her green eyes, the same shade as his own, somehow bright in the darkness of the cave, hovered above him and he managed to wheeze out, "daughter."

A/N First all thank you to the people who took time to review and follow. I really appreicate it. :) And regarding this chapter, well maybe you saw that coming, maybe you didn't. Though who is Scar referring to? And can we really trust anything he would say? As before reviews, critiques, anything; leave them if you're so inclined.


	3. Chapter 3

In this new darkness the light didn't dance, it didn't sneak in through the cave vines and the burnt bracken. The scorched savanna grass didn't whistle as a mild breeze caressed the fine tendrils. In this darkness there was very little. Nothing more than a creeping sensation that the place where there had once been light was now void of it, snuffed out in a single instant. Light and then none. This wasn't the cyclical darkness of the pridelands. Nothing like the gradual setting of the sun.

Scar had observed it sometimes when he thought no one was looking, had crept out of the cave he had come to inhabit high above the land in the heart of Priderock, and sat and watched the sunlight move along in a great arch over the fields, trees, and the beasts that crawled across it, watched as it burned in all of its bright intensity and then slowly faded and gave way to the darkness. He didn't like it. In it lay some sort of metaphor, either of himself, or of his brother, damning his reign or celebrating his victory. He wanted to believe the latter, but watching it he wondered if he wasn't the night, the thing left over, when everything else had been snuffed out. It didn't help that Sarabi had just informed him of the lack of prey and the unsuccessful hunting trip. If his kingdom was one of light, the darkness always overthrew it in the end. Either perspective seemed prophetic of doom, and he dismissed them, as products of idle thought. Even so, it unsettled him on more than one occasion, and in those moments of doubt he would pace his cave, thinking how silly it was to be upset by the setting of the sun.

But this new darkness he now found himself in was different, so complete, cold, numb, void of all sound but a deep hollow thrumming, a heartbeat, a great pounding of drums. And unbidden he remembered how in his cubhood he had heard the same sound somewhere far away, beyond the Kingdom that Ahadi oversaw. The other lions must have heard them, but no else ever seemed to acknowledge it.

And in the end, the sound had become his alone. Something only Taka knew, something his brother couldn't have. There was so little of that. He clung to anything he could make his own. Be it phantom drums, or even the scar across his eye that had come to define him, even replace his name, because as Taka he had been nothing. He was the brother of Mufasa; second in line behind the great golden progeny. But as Scar, he became more than that.

He would be surprised if anyone even remembered his birth name. He certainly never thought of himself with it. No, in his own mind he was Scar. Taka belonged to a different time. He had made his own name literally, one made it blood, and disregard, and it only followed that one with such a name should act in such a way.

This darkness though was endless. Even when he saw himself as the light snuffed out as the sun descended below the horizon, he knew that it would rise again, lifting out of the great earth, and coming to rest high in the sky, high above everything else, exacting its power in those long hours of the afternoon, nourishing, and killing, and ruling throughout the day. But this darkness was different, there would be no sunrise, this was an infinite oblivion that one could never rise from, an end to his empire, utter nothingness. But there was movement, a blow and then pain, nothing, and then pain, like something was striking him, and then retreating, returning again so that each blow sent an image of red out into the darkness that enveloped him. Behind his eyelids the red droplets spread, and then he opened his eyes. He smacked his head back against the rock when he was met by the snout of another lion, peering down into his eys. "Mufasa," he snarled, and staggered to his feet. Everything spun for a moment, the cave lilting violently to the left, and then righting itself so he was looking at Nala, and everything rushed back: the return of Simba, his fall from Priderock, the ensuing battle, and then crawling away like something weak and defeated and being discovered by Nala. His head throbbed, and he took deep gasping breathes, trying to pull everything back into focus, trying to think, plan, determine what to do. He needed to say something now. Stop her attack, win her over. But she wasn't attacking, her eyes were wide, she was breathing heavily, looking at him like he had something to tell her, or she had come to realize something.

"I appreciate you removing your foot from my throat. I've grown quite tired of being caught in that position. Very unpleasant."

"Stop talking," she said and then faltered. "Tell me again. What did you say?"

He stumbled, realizing that his ploy had worked, it had saved him at the last second. When her foot had drawn away from his throat, the sun had risen once again. He felt giddy. It had worked; he had her for the moment. If he could keep her that was a first step, one paw closer to reclaiming what was rightfully his. She had hesitated, that was all he needed. He had her attention, and now he could direct it, move her however he desired. He rubbed a paw against his throat, clearing his throat, being the good orator he was, it was never good to disappoint a waiting audience with a lackluster performance. He needed his voice. It still sounded different to his ears, the smoke making it lower, gravely, giving his words a darker deeper sound.

"I want to hear what you were trying to say," she said. She stepped forward, and under her anger there was curiosity. He had her hooked. "Only that, as I assume, you are unaware of your paternal lineage. And here I am, quite in the know," he said. And if it was the leer in his expression, or the dawning realization to his meaning, she took a step back, and then with a gasp ran from the cave.

**A/N As always thank you for reading. Review are always appreciated! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

Nala darted from the cave.

"Damn it all." He had hoped to avoid that reaction. He couldn't catch her in his state. He must be slipping if his plan was averted so easily. When he stuck his head outside the cave he was met with the overwhelming scent of other lions. Of Simba, Sarabi, and the blood of a successful kill. His back foot caught in the bracken and he stumbled. Simba and Sarabi turned in his direction. At Sarabi's feet lay a dead antelope.

"Oh, Simba, you should have seen it. The watering hole is full of life. The rain has brought prey ba-" Sarabi's words dropped away.

There was no point in hiding. If he lived through this it would be because of Nala, because of the insidious idea he had planted. It if worked she would keep him alive. Certainly not in comfort, but she still wanted answers. She was tenacious just like him. She had traveled the farthest when out looking for prey. She had brought a lion back from the dead. She could keep him from the same fate, if he played it just right. The savanna was open and bright after the cave, and the light blinded him when he stepped out.

Before he could do anything Simba leapt before him and roared, the sound so similar to his father's that he cowered instinctively before he could stop himself. He let out a cry of pain as his back leg took more of his weight.

"Scar," Simba said. The volume of the word deafened the savanna. Sarabi and Nala stood close by, staring him down, daring him to say anything, make any movement.

"Nephew," he said. "As you can see, I've had a bit of an ordeal." He shifted his weight away from his bad leg.

"Leave now," Simba said. "I don't want to do anything I might regret." Then as if hesitating, perhaps realizing the gravity of his words, repeated his first command, "Leave now."

"Your rule is over now Scar," Sarabi said, quietly like talking to a cub, using the same tuneful words when sending a naughty cub off to bed_. It's past your bed time now little one, off to bed with you, don't want the termites to carry you away. _All bad cubs were carried away by the termites, never to be seen again.

"What a sense of deja vu," Scar said. "It's as if I had this conversation only days before," he cast his sight on Nala and tried to read her expression. She stood wide-eyed, but wouldn't look at him.

"Leave now, Scar."

"You wouldn't force your wounded uncle to wonder alone into the Savana. I know you wouldn't do that. You aren't a murderer, Simba."

"No, that's you, Scar." He could see his nephew was unsure. He had probably spent that morning surveying his lands noting the damage, the lack of resources. Scar doubted that the small amount of rainfall would be enough to bring the savanna back to life. It would take time. But looking down, below his paw, he saw the first sprigs of grass between his toes.

He trembled from exhaustion and pain, and as Simba stepped closer his back leg finally gave out. He collapsed to the dirt, and roared in surprise at the sudden pain, it was deep and penetrating, a dull throb, and then a sharp stabbing agony that radiated through the rest of the leg, and left him gasping. There was no way he could run if he wanted to. In between the throbbing pain affronting his senses, the sneer of his nephew standing over him, he struggled to form thought, and instead frantically calculated his chance of survival. Either Simba would kill him, or he would leave him to die here. Either way he stood little chance of survival. Nala seemed unfazed. But he was sure he had gotten to her. It would start to dog her, she wouldn't leave him here.

His own father had hated him, despised him, belittled him, shunted him to the side, degraded him. And yet he knew how powerful a father could be. Only one with such power could elicit such strong reactions. His daugher, Nala, yes Nala was his daughetr, he was almost certain would have craved to have known her own father and yet Sarafina had never mentioned it to her. Never once, for all he knew. He waited, the pain overpowering his senses of reason. He wanted to give into exhaustion. It would mean admitting defeat. Simba's form blocked the sun, his great shadow lying across the Savanna. To think that moments before he had plans to reclaim the throne. Now with a sickening, sinking realization he knew his plans of trying to stay alive were dwindling. This was it. And he was almost too exhausted to care. Let Simba do it quickly. "Be merciful," he said, against the dirt. "Leave your poor Uncle some dignity."

"Look at you," Simba said with a bark of laughter. "I can't believe it. Asking for mercy after what you did. You killed my father, and blamed me, you made me think I had done it. I still think I did, Scar. I can't get it out my head." He paced back and forth in front of his Uncle. "You can't know what that feels like." The words had slipped from him like droplets of rain from a dark cloud. Unbidden, as if he was straining to hold back the deluge.

"Simba," Sarabi said, and stood next to her sun stopping his pacing. "Simba," she said again, and pushed a reassuring shoulder against his. "Simba, you did nothing wrong."

"I know," he said. "I know that, mother. We-we'll talk about it later," he said.

"A good king is merciful," Scar said from his lowly position.

"A good king that may be, But I can never forgive you."

"All accusations reflect on the condemner," Scar said.

"And what does that mean?" Simba paced in front of him, his nails scratching in the dry dirt.

"Only that the one accusing is not entirely exempt from the crime."

"I don't have time for your words Scar. For your mind games. I won't let you do this anymore. I won't allow you to stay here."

"Then you truly are a murderer. I knew you had the capacity for it after I saw you standing on your precious rock. The hyenas and the fire taking care of the one problem that stood between you and your throne. You sent me to my death. And here our noble king stands before us, blood on his claws," Scar said. He felt powerful. Sure he would get a rise out of Simba. He didn't care if it resulted in violence, just if he could gloat, if he could make Simba feel anger, guilt, regret over what he had done, then he would still hold power over his nephew.

But the surge of power sputtered out as Simba turned his back, his tail lashing violently and walked away, leaving Scar lying in the dirt. His back legged throbbed. He tried to stand, but ended up collapsing. "Simba," he said. His voice didn't make it past the small sprig of grass near his foot. Simba continued to walk away, an agonizing slowness to his step. He was at ease, a complete lack of care. Sarabi turned with her son, and walked shoulder to shoulder with him. Nala stayed, but wouldn't make eye contact with him.

"Nala. What I said before. I was being sincere," he said.

"No, Scar. You weren't," she said. And she followed Simba and Sarabi back to Pride Rock.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank to you everyone who has taken the time to review, follow, or fav. All three are greatly appreciated! :D (Extended author note at end)**

Simba ascended Pride Rock, keeping his eyes on the dirt. His mother was saying something, but he couldn't focus on her words. He kept hearing his Uncle's voice in his head, goading him, he wanted a raise out of him, that's how Scar worked, and that's how he got what he wanted. He was being manipulated like he had been all those years before. _It's to die for_, echoed in his head in his Uncle's distinctive voice. _It's to die for._ He stopped himself from peering over the edge, and focused instead on the cave in the heart of Pride Rock.

He and Nala had slept in there for the first time in years the night before. And he had slept like the dead. He could still smell the smoke, but he was filled with the sense that everything was going to be all right. Everything was in its place once again, all wrongs had been righted. And it was with this deep sense of relief he had fallen asleep, Nala next to him. Her breathing light, but full, and he sank so easily away.

But now there was a feeling of guilt wrapping itself around his insides, choking and squeezing, and it existed in tandem with the anger that had reignited upon seeing his Uncle. He was sure he had died the night before. He had felt something in that moment, something he didn't want to think about. He had felt a great relief, seeing that is Uncle was finished, so deep and penetrative, but that wasn't the problem. Fueled by anxiety he had returned to the Pridelands, and defeated the lion who had taken everything away from him. Relief was normal.

No, what disturbed him was the exhilaration. He was transfixed as the Hyena's descended upon his shabby, bloodied uncle. He had wanted to see his death. And maybe it was his duty as king to ensure the threat to his kingdom was annihilated, but such a thing should have been witnessed in detachment. It should not have elicited such an emotion from him. He had wanted to see the hyenas tear his throat out, see him ripped to pieces. The idea filled him with a dark excitement. He felt himself digging his claws into the edge of pride rock as if it were his Uncle's pelt. He tightened his own jaw as if he were biting into his throat, licked his lips as if he could taste the blood, feel it, warm, and pulsing, the taste of a kill. It wasn't until Nala came to stand beside him. He didn't know how long she had been there, but she had nudged his shoulder, said his name over and over again, and then finally, batted the side of his ear lightly, before he would look at her, before he turned his eyes away from the fighting below, even though it had been obscured by smoke minutes before. The laughter of the hyenas filled the Pridelands, but the roars he had heard before had quieted.

"Simba," she said. "It's over. It's really over." And then she pushed her body against his as the skies above them opened and rain fell in torrents over the dead land.

As he walked now and came to stop at the same place he had stood the night before, those feelings returned. He didn't look to the place where he had left his uncle now. It was over. He didn't need to think about that anymore. He could compartmentalize. That was how he survived when he left the Pridelands the first time, and that was how he would survive this too. He found Nala and wondered at her vacant expression, momentarily forgetting the problem of his uncle. "What's wrong," he said.

"It's-" she looked around, as if not knowing where she was. "I don't know. Simba, it's nothing. Really it's nothing."

"Did he say something to you?" he asked.

She stopped pacing and looked at him.

"Simba." She hesitated and took a breath. "I-I don't know if any of it's true. He lies about everything."

"What did he tell you?"

He tried not to look in the direction of his uncle, but caught the dark form out of the corner of his eyes. From up here his uncle looked smaller than ever. And he was slight to begin with. He could see every rib on his torn and bloodied coat. His back foot lay at an odd angle. His head rested against his front legs, his black mane coated in dirt, and blood, and pieces of burnt underbrush and bracken. Like something dead, a kill dragged in by one of the lioness.

"Where's my mother," Nala said.

"She was out hunting," Sarabi said. "I left her at the watering hole."

"I need to talk to her," Nala said.

"Wait," Simba said. "What did he say to you?" he stopped and realized how harsh and demanding his own voice sounded.

"I -I need to think," she said.

"You can't believe anythinghe says. He's lower than any weasel. He'll say anything that will get him what he wants. Anything. There's nothing about him that's real." Simba paced, and averted his gaze from the dark shape in the dust below his feet. "Nothing. He uses his power to hurt, and take away, and force the blame on others. " His claws raked through the dirt. His breathing was becoming ragged. His shoulders trembled.

"Has he always been like that?" Nala asked.

"To a degree," Sarabi said. "He always liked to play games, and he almost always won."

"When you were cubs?" Simba asked.

Sarabi nodded. "Mufasa would always take it all so light-heartedly. He let his little brother win, and Scar knew it. We both would let him win if it came to a contest in strength. Otherwise he would go into such a dark mood."

Simba listened to his mother, trying to imagine his father, mother, and Uncle as cubs, as mischievous as he and Nala had been.

"We would play ruler of Pride Rock. Mufasa and I were about evenly matched. The three of us always played together, but Scar was prone to injury. He would get so involved, one moment laughing and playing, fighting and rolling with his brother, and the next, so angry and hurt that he wouldn't even talk to or look at us. He would stalk away or lash out, and he wasn't playing. He would draw his claws, even while we always fought without ours. And the one time when Mufasa had pushed him from his spot Scar had been so outraged that he tried to slash Mufasa across his back. Oh, but your father, he just laughed the whole time, batting away his brother's paw, pinning him to the ground. Scar snarled, and fought, and struggled, like an ornery cub until Mufasa grew tired of it and let him up. And after a while he simply refused to play, and really ruler of Pride Rock isn't much fun without three players. Your father loved his little brother and wanted him to be happy. So we stopped playing. He was prone to these outbursts if he didn't get what he wanted. If he was bested sometimes he wouldn't talk for hours. Just stewed in his own head. And it was these black moods that Mufasa tried to prevent by letting him win. But I think Scar could see through that, and it enraged him even more."

"It seems just like him," Simba said and felt the pull to peer down at his Uncle's still figure.

"But then again, when he was winning, he was quite charming. When it came to words he always knew the right way to say something. He excelled in wit and logic. But even then you couldn't help but feel it was all a game, a motive behind everything he said. Each sentence thought out, so when he wanted something he was certain to get it. He knew how you were going to react, knew the outcome before he engaged anyone. I always wondered if there was anything more to him beside his own ambitions, besides his games. Mufasa always said there was, something that Scar showed only to him, opened only to his big brother. But I don't think he could accept how truly bloodthirsty his little brother was."

Her words trailed away, her voice breaking. He followed his mother's gaze over the edge of the great overhang of rock, and saw she was looking directly at the bedraggled body of her brother-in-law. He hadn't moved. And Simba wondered if he hadn't died after all. He hadn't really had the chance to see how severe his wounds actually were. Though judging from the snarling and fighting and the great number of hyneas that had made up his army, it must have been a cruel and desperate battle for his survival, and yet there he was. Somehow he had made it out alive. Against a hundred slobbering enemies he had survived, had used what he was best at against brute strength and once again come out on top. Simba gritted his teeth.

Pebbles tumbled over to his right. Nala stood at the base of Pride Rock.

"Wait," he said, and followed behind her, let me come with you. He needed to get away for a moment, clear his mind, and figure out what he needed to do. The other lioness wouldn't be happy to see the tyrant still breathing and he needed to come up with a plan, preferably something that didn't end any more bloodshed.

Nala didn't protest him accompanying her to find her mother, but she didn't look particularly enthusiastic either. And he wondered if maybe she had wanted to go alone, but he fell into step behind her, hoping she would divulge what was on her mind. He didn't want to push her, but he knew his uncle had said something. All the joy he had had sensed in her the other day, knowing that everyone was safe again, that everything was going to be all right had drained away, and it was almost as it had been when he first saw her in that great absence.

He had the feeling that he didn't know her anymore. And maybe that was true. They had diverged from each other, taken different paths, changed, grown apart, time and distance had had risen between them, and Nala was now just a warm body that slept against him. He still thought of her as the cub he used to play with, and he wondered if she didn't see him the same way.

They would have to discover each other all over again. They were strangers with roots in common, and little else, there branches stretching in different directions. Like great interconnected baobab trees. They had grown from a single seed and then there trunks had split. And yet that was enough to hold them together, the promise that Sarafinea had made to Mufasa, that her daughter would marry the future king. But who was she really? She seemed so different from the cub he had come to know, and he was certainly different from the curious cub that had been chased from his home.

**A/N: So this chapter shifts perspective from Scar to Simba. (Not permanently) but I feel in order to get the most from this story events need to be witnessed from Simba's perspective as well. And really at this point in the story Scar is in no shape to relate anything outside his scope of suffering. Keep in mind while reading this that Simba is going through an identity crisis. He had thought of himself as the future king throughout his childhood, and then when he was forced into exile he came to redefine himself, now he has been forced back into his original role, and things aren't the same. He had to come to accept the lies he had been told, come to terms with how he might be responsible for his father's death. These thoughts had became integral to his character and psyche. Something like that isn't just going to be so easily expunged. It's something that would take time to come to terms with. **

**So let me know what you thought. Does Simba's perspective work for you. (If not, no worries, we'll be back to Scar in the next chapter) **


	6. Chapter 6

Simba and Nala drew close to the watering hole. Sarafina ducked down beneath the waving fronds of undergrowth and slithered through the grass. Simba spotted her sleek back. She traced the ground, each step of her paw elegant and precise, and he could see the young gazelle separated from the herd. Sarafina's gaze locked on it. It could sense danger and when Simba and Nala approached its ears flicked in their direction. With a jolt it leapt and ran. Sarafina cursed and rounded on them, but the anger in her posture fell away as she straightened and recognized them.

"Well, I wasn't expecting you," Sarafina said and then laughed. "I keep expecting those smelly mutts." She came over to meet them, and Simba noticed how how her ribs jutted from her yellow coat. "Nala, it's wonderful. Everything's returning to normal. You won't believe how many gazelle we've been able to get this morning. More than enough to feed everyone for a few days. My mouth is already watering at the idea." She tilted her head when her daughter didn't reply. "Did Sarabi send you?"

"No, Mom," Nala said. "I need to talk to you."

Simba wondered if he should leave, but Nala's posture gave nothing away. He ran his paw through the dirt looking over the pridelands.

"Is something wrong?" Sarafina said. She looked between the two lions.

"No, no nothing's wrong, just something unexpected," Simba said hoping to ease the worry he sensed in her voice.

"It's Scar," Nala said.

Sarafina flinched. "He's still alive?" she said, her eyes wide. "But we all saw what happened. How did he survive?"

Simba watched Nala closely, her sight somewhere over her mother's shoulder, and he wondered what she saw and at the change that had already overcome her appearance, almost as if all the years that had come to separate them now settled over her; a great weight.

"Nala, what's going on?" Simba said.

"It's nothing, really, it's nothing," she said. But he could see that she was about to break, and the more she fought it the less composed she grew.

Sarafina moved closer to her daughter, but Nala took a step back. "Nala," she said, "did he tell you something?" Her voice was little more than a whisper.

Nala bent her head and ran her paw through the dirt. "Is he my father?"

Sarafina stepped back, a small squeak rising from her throat. "What did he say to you?"

Simba thought he had misheard her, and he moved forward to stand in front of his mate. "What? He's lying." But when trying to recall Nala's father no particular image came to him. For some reason he had never thought about it as a cub. He had a father, and a mother, and Nala had Sarafina. That was how it was. And then mimicking Sarafina he said, "What did he say?"

"That's it. That's what he said." And then as if letting out a deep sigh, her words burst forth, "You know, I always wondered." She turned towards her mother. "You always seemed so ashamed. I assumed it was a rogue lion, but Scar? All this time it was him?"

"Nala, please, just listen to me. I wanted to explain it all to you, but after everything that happened. After he took power and he threatened to kill all of the cubs that weren't his, I told him that you were his daughter, a-and he spared you. I didn't want to bring it up again. I just wanted you to have a life. I was scared to say it to anyone. I thought someone would see through me."

"Then you mean he's not?"

"I don't know," Sarafina said and looked to the side. "I don't really know."

"How do you not know?"

"I was very lonely, Nala, you have to understand. I was very afraid and very alone, and I thought I couldn't have cubs."

Simba lost track of her words. Scar was Nala's father? It couldn't be true. They looked nothing alike. There was nothing of that narrowness. None of the bullying, or superiority.

Simba had barely known Sarafina growing up, back in those hot arid days that seemed to stretch way into the very light that made up his dad's kingdom. He could remember her always sitting in the shade, her thin form half in and out of the shadows, her pink tongue moving over Nala's fur so like his own mother. She seemed loving, motherly, protective. His own mother was her good friend.

"But I have his eyes," she said, the realization seeming to weigh her down. "He really is, isn't he?"She stepped closer. "No, no. It can't be true. I don't believe him. "

"Nala, I'm so sorry, I should have said something earlier. I was- I was so relieved to think he was dead. and now-oh Great Kings, I didn't think he would survive."

Nala shook her head. "No. I don't believe him. It would be just like him. Right Simba?" She turned to him. "All he does is lie. You said so yourself. Everything he did to you was for his own gain. It was all a lie. He lied to every single one of us, about what happened in the gorge that day. I don't believe him." She stalked away before her mother could say anything else.

"Simba," Sarafina said.

He looked after Nala, but something kept him from following her.

"Simba, I really don't know."

"I understand," he said. "I'd do anything not to have any connection with him either."

"I wanted to protect her, and it was the only I could think to do it. He believed me. He must see something in Nala that he sees in himself, to say that.

"He sees whatever he needs to see in everyone," Simba said. He felt empty, exhausted, and the task before him sunk upon him like the sun lowering beneath the horizon.

**A/N 12/5 Just a few small edits to this chapter to help with the flow of a few of these sentences. Hopefully it reads a bit better.**


	7. Chapter 7

Scar's shadow stretched before him and then shrunk back inwards as the sun moved across the sky. Sounds echoed strangely, the padding of feet all around him and then the flapping of wings. The rush of air raising the fur around his mane. He struck out as a vulture landed nearby, his claws grazing its neck. It took to the air with a scream.

The sun baked down. He needed to get back to the cave. If he could just get to his feet he could make it. It was barely a stone throw away. But he was so sapped of energy, and he found that when he did try to push himself upwards that the savanna would twist and squirm, zigzags and bursts of light filling his vision and then darkening, so that he would have to lower his head back to the ground to abate the dizziness.

One time he spotted Simba looking down on him. His mane so like Mufasa's that he flinched, but when he next looked the lion was gone, puffed into the smoke still rising from a few smoldering branches.

He needed to do something about his leg. His toes were numb, and it took great concentration to bend them. He pulled his leg closer and twisted around so he could reach it. The bone stood out from the skin, a white splintered shaft, and then everything rotated in a dizzying rush of black, the blood rushing from his skull. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Simba again.

"Nephew," he shouted his voice so hoarse and dry that it came out as a croak. But Simba made no move and the closer he looked he came to realize that there was really no one there at all, only the stretching shadow of the sun across the precipice of Pride Rock. The next time he looked up he saw Mufasa standing on the edge, his red mane tousled and blowing in the breeze. His brown eyes focused on his little brother.

"Mufasa," he yelled. "Brother, brother, brother." A small mantra that quieted the longer he repeated it and came to a whisper like the wind against his own whiskers.

He felt the padding of feet near his head and twisted his neck so he could peer upwards.

And if he was an apparition or not, he couldn't tell, but he shifted, guarding himself against the lion that stood in-front of him. "Simba," he said. "I knew you wouldn't leave me here."

Simba paced, the dry sand spitting up under his paws.

"Scar," he said with a low growl. "Leave now."

Scar laughed at how childish and unreasonable the demand sounded. He had to see that wasn't a possibility. "I would if I could."

Simba roared and turned on him. "Leave now, or I'll-"

"Or you'll what?" Scar said. "You'll rip out my throat. Simba, by now that would be a welcome mercy. By all means have at."

Simba resumed his pacing. It didn't take much to see that Simba wasn't holding up well under the task of ruling his new kingdom. Scar felt something rise in him. A new strength working through his limbs. The little furball was buckling under the pressure. Like the strong winds that would sometimes pick up gravel and dust off of the savanna, Simba's thoughts were twisted, confused. Anger, Scar thought, anger that there was a little hitch in his plan, that his return hadn't been the success he had first thought; this decimated land now his kingdom, and the deposed king still haunting the grounds.

But, oh, he could still place the barb and push it in deep and more than anything he wanted to hurt Simba.

"Oh, Simba and your conscience. How hard it is to get anything done when you spend _hooours_ contemplating a simple task." Scar was well aware he might very well be digging his own grave.

Simba paced with his head to the ground, his claws out. Scar would bet his pelt on it though that Simba didn't have it in him. It was more fun to goad. "Oh Simba, Simba," he found the strength to push himself upwards, putting almost all of his weight on his front legs, his left back foot hung uselessly. And there was a strength he thought he had lost coursing through his body. He felt his heart pounding, the blood thumping in his skull. "I can try, I suppose, but I doubt I'll make it far. Oh, the _paaain_. You can't imagine."

Simba suddenly stopped his pacing in front of Scar. How big he had gotten. He looked like his father to a tee, and Scar was struck by the idea that it wasn't Simba standing before him, but his own brother. A creeping sense of recognition washed over him, and he shook his head trying to clear the thoughts. It had to be the blood loss, the fever. He found what he planned to say wiped from his mind, and he stood on shaking legs in front of the usurper.

"You're standing. You can leave," the apparition said. Before Scar stood his brother, and he gasped, recoiling,

"Mufasa-" just as he said the word his brother's struck him. Mufasa had hit him. _Why, why would he do that? What had he done wrong?_ Something seemed to break inside of him, a deep wrenching tearing, a rending that made him want to pull himself inwards. Mufasa would never hit him, and it was with the mentality of a cub, of following his big brother, wanting to be his big brother that resurfaced in his mind, and blocked out the great shadow standing over him. The memory consumed him. The deep gash across his snout didn't hurt as much the betrayal.

XXX

It had been his father's name that had sent Simba over. All that wheedling, all the over drawn words, and false accusations, and the self-pity, he could take, but not using his father as a bargaining chip. He was sure Scar was about to say, _but Mufasa would take pity_, or some other barb to tear at Simba; to tell him he wasn't fit for the job of king; for the responsibilities and heavy decisions. And that had been it. His father's name sent the world into a spiral of red, and he had drawn his claws. He didn't know his intention in that moment, just to make him shut up, and he lashed out.

His paw had connected squarely with the side of Scar's jaw, and then with a whooshing noise, like a great gasp of breath, his Uncle hit the ground. Like how a rainstorm could suddenly block out the sun, one minute bright and hot, and the next cold and dark. His uncle lay under his him, moaning, and twitching his front paws, little whispers of words parting from his sharp fangs.

He had added three long scratches to the left side of Scar's face. Simba stepped back, afraid of his action, and then wondered if that that blow had been it; if Scar would die now? He had hit him with all of his strength.

"Scar," he said. He didn't want to touch the still form. Unbidden, he saw his father lying in the deep gorge, his fur plastered in blood. His red mane flattened around his bruised, broken face, and Simba let out a little wail, so similar to the cry of a cub that he couldn't believe it was his own voice, and he stepped back from the body. Sudden panic filled him, and he found he couldn't breathe. He saw himself, his father before him, reaching out trying to awaken him, trying everything he could to get his dad to open his eyes, but nothing worked.

Simba had been swallowed by the gorge and never come back. Even now when he stood near Priderock, he knew the truth. So much of himself had been lost that day of the stampede. And to be faced with that place was too much. He couldn't bear to look at the form lying in the dirt by his feet and instead he took off, like hyenas were snapping at his back legs ready to maul and kill. And in that flash, that great thrust of movement, as everything rushed around him, the wind against his face, the burning in his back legs, he felt better. It felt good to run. Then again, hadn't it always?

**A/N I just want to thank everyone over at the Review Forums, Too, for helping me with this story so far. You're advice is wonderful and always appreciated it. And thank you to everyone who has reviewed, faved, and followed since the last chapter was posted. **


	8. Chapter 8

The dry savanna grass stuck in the pads of Simba's feet as he ran. The sun followed him. Cylindrical shadows made by the grass, by the rocks and trees he passed stretched across the ground. He pushed himself harder, his muscles straining. He didn't know where he was running. The image of his father lingered, and he forced himself to move faster. Black spots filled his vision, and he was forced to stop, his back legs shaking, barely supporting him as he gasped.

An antelope stood not far from him, frozen under his gaze, but he didn't acknowledge it. His stomach was twisted in knots. Even if he was hungry there was no way he could hunt. It took a slow step backwards, its eyes focused on him, and then seeming to realize he posed no threat it dashed and leapt and tore across the savanna.

He stood panting unaware of his environment, even of the great tree in front of him, as if his feet had led him to this destination. It was the tallest thing in the empty valley, and he realized where he stood. This was Rafiki's home. Something had led him here. His heartbeat started to slow, to fade back among his senses, and his vision cleared. "Rafiki," he said, but it came out hoarse, small. Rebelling against the sound, he roared, "RAFIKI!"

"I may be old, but I'm not yet deaf," came the reply, and the mandrill swung down from a branch, one hand holding his ever present cane, the other anchoring him to the tree. "Young King, I was just thinking of you in preparation of a great festival, and I had the funniest feeling that I would be seeing you quite soon." He sidled down the tree, moving quickly for someone his age. "But I have to admit this was still quite unexpected."

"Rafiki- " he faltered, and licked his muzzle, trying to find the words. He still felt like he was the young cub back in the gorge, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up and be rid of the memory. His legs shook. He wanted to run.

"Simba," and as if reading his mind, "you can't outrun a memory."

And Simba felt the horrible bubble that had filled his chest burst, and he gasped for air in a great sob. "I know. I just thought I was free from Scar."

"He is not dead then?"

"I don't know," Simba said. "He might be, I couldn't tell. I just had to get away. I didn't know what to do. I didn't even mean to come here. It just happened."

"I highly doubt that," Rafiki said. "Something led you here. _Someone_ guided you."

And understanding his meaning, Simba let out a breath. "My father seems to point me in your direction a lot."

"Well I was his adviser for a great number of years."

"And you're the closest, aren't you? I mean to the Great Kings. You can talk to them, when the rest of us can only see their light when the sun sets."

"It's taken me years, Simba, to get to that point. I've learned to clear my mind and listen. You'd be surprised what comes to you then; the rest of the world fades away, and even your own heartbeat gets lost. The voices that lie underneath everything, start to make themselves heard, but not always, and not always so clearly. But your father, perhaps because he is not so far gone, is the loudest among them."

"What did he say I should do?" Simba asked, his breathing coming easier. He felt relieved. Rafiki seemed to hold the answers to the universe, and surely his problem wasn't one on level with the incomprehensible celestial world. Rafiki would be able to fix it, give Simba the advice he needed.

The mandrill tilted his head and scratched his chin with the tip of his cane. "I don't rightfully know."

Simba looked to the ground. "I think I killed him," he said. "I wasn't thinking right. I lashed out, and he just hit the ground, and the whole- Oh Great Kings- I couldn't move. It was like I was frozen there, and I could see my dad in the gorge. That's never happened to me before, not like that. I used to think about it all the time, but to actually be there - it was like I was a cub again, weak, useless, the cause of it all."

Rafiki nodded. "Terrible things can do that to us."

"I thought I was going crazy. All I could think to do was run."

"No, No, not crazy. It's natural when you've experienced something awful like you have Simba. It is very brave to face such a thing."

"But I ran."

"Not so far, though. It is easily fixable. You ran to the right place," Rafiki said and laughed. "Let me have a look at this uncle of yours. I'll grab a few things."

Simba nodded, suddenly feeling drained. He closed his eyes, trying to block out all of the sounds around him, all the feelings; the grass under his paws, the heat, but his own heart was louder than anything else, and he found he couldn't get to the place that Rafiki spoke of.

"Young King," Rafiki said and tapped his shoulder.

Simba started, aware that some time had slipped away from him.

"I have what I need." Rafiki held up the cane to show Simba a neatly wrapped satchel of leaves looped around one end and anchored with a thin vine.

"That'll be enough?" Simba asked.

"How hard did you hit him?" Rafiki asked.

"It wasn't just me. He fell off Pride Rock and was attacked by hyenas."

"Well, if he survived all of that, I doubt a little knock to the head could have done much more damage. It wouldn't be the first time after all."

"It wouldn't?" Simba asked.

"I suppose no one ever told you how he got his namesake scar."

"I never thought to ask Dad."

"Well come on, let's walk. We should hurry, but I will tell you a brief version."

They hurried across the savanna. Simba was glad to have Rafiki's story because he didn't know where his mind would wander with it out. And the chance to hear a story of his father as a cub was something he longed for.

"They were both still quite young," Rafiki started, "their manes just starting to come in when the water buffalo declared a monopoly on the watering hole. There was a drought, and many animals were suffering. They came to your father asking for help, and seeing that it was time to give some responsibility to the next future king, Ahadi sent Mufasa out to have counsel with them. Scar didn't say much, but it was easy to tell he was irritated by the responsibility that was given to your father, and it must have been then when he fashioned his plan.

He followed Mufasa to the watering hole and hid in the reeds on the opposite side. When Mufasa began to speak to the water buffalo, explaining the situation, Scar interrupted from the other side of the reed bed, telling them that Ahadi had declared that Mufasa was to attack, and fight for the watering hole. Upon hearing this, the water buffalo was enraged and began to attack Mufasa. Before Mufasa had the chance to explain, and perhaps Scar was ignorant of the size of the buffalo herd, the water buffalo ordered his guard to attack Scar. Mufasa was able to outwit the charging buffalo, but three of his herd had charged Scar with full intention of killing him. They would have succeeded if it wasn't for Mufasa and the intervention of Ahadi at the last moment. I don't rightfully know what would have happened if Ahadi's youngest son had been murdered that day. The blow to his head had been devastating. He was knocked unconscious, and the wound across his eye was terrible, but I was able to heal Taka that day."

"Taka?" Simba, asked.

"That is your Uncles birth name. It was only after that day that he took on the name Scar. It was his own recklessness that earned him his name, and it was a name he adopted himself. "

"He was sorry for what he did then?" Simba said.

"I wouldn't say that, more that he embraced his true nature fully in that moment."

"Trash, garbage, dirt," Simba said. "That's what Taka means, and it fits. He didn't deserve the chance to change it."

"Ahadi had a different meaning in mind when he gave his son that name, but it was one that Scar would never realize."

As they moved, Simba caught the scent of something rotten. He turned quickly trying to identify the source, but he saw nothing. Seeing that Rafiki seemed to pay it no heed, he decided it was an issue to look into later, after the pressing one had been taken care of. The tall savanna grass rustled as they wove their way back to Pride Rock. Simba didn't know what they would find. He half suspected that his uncle would have disappeared. That it was all a nightmare, and he would awaken, and everything would be all right; at least as all right as he could expect it to be. Even among the dead grass he could see the start of green. It pressed back against his paws, alive and springy, not like the itchy dead stalks that stuck to his mane, caught in his paws, and broke under their steps. The sun was beginning to dip low into the sky. Birds flocked across it, dark silhouettes against the blood red light, as if they themselves burned with it, but as they passed its great mass, they retook their forms and disappeared in the horizon.

"Why'd did no one see it then?" Simba asked. "Scar, Taka, whoever he was wanted to kill Dad even then. No one thought that he might do it again?" Simba let out a bark of laughter. "I can't believe they still trusted him after that."

"You're grandfather knew his son was troubled, but he still loved him. He thought it was just how young lions act out. Supposedly, Ahadi as well had been fond of practical jokes in his youth."

"I wouldn't call that a practical joke. My dad could have been killed."

"It's true," Rafiki said. "It was a sign that none of us took into account."

**A/N Much thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, fav, follow. Every little thing is appreciated. I love getting feedback, so don't be shy. Let me know what you think. I'm working on this as a part of Nanowrimo right now, so I spend a lot of time plotting, and writing, and haven't had much a chance to upload, but the goods news is the story is getting written! I hope to have a large chunk of it completed by the end of November. That doesn't mean you shouldn't expect updates though, when I find time in-between I'll be editing and posting new chapters. Special thanks to everyone at Review Lounge, and to Gun Lizard, Almond Butter, TMNTmentalistTLK lover, and Purtail for reviewing the previous chapter! :D**


	9. Chapter 9

Simba was astounded to see that they had arrived back at Pride Rock. The distance had felt so much greater when he was running away from it. Sarafina stood by Scar, looking down at his body. "He's still breathing," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. "I thought maybe he had stopped, but no, he's still alive." Simba could see the small shiver that seemed to move throughout her whole body.

Here were Nala's parents. He still couldn't accept it. It couldn't be true. His chest ached to know what Nala now had realized, and he hoped she was okay. As soon as he figured out what to do with Scar, he would go find her. He couldn't believe he had let her leave, but he had been so shocked in that moment, that he hadn't been thinking straight. All he could think, was that he needed to confront his uncle, and then everything had gone wrong. He hadn't wanted to hit him. He hadn't wanted to knock him unconscious. Instead of getting a real answer to his question, he had lost his chance to find out if what Scar claimed was true or not.

"Rafiki, you came to help?" Sarafina asked absently. Rafiki moved closer to Scar, walking on two feet. Simba watched transfixed as he moved over the body.

"We need to get him out of the sun," Rafiki said. The shadow of Pride Rock was stretching across the savanna. "The heat will kill him if it hasn't already," he said. Rafiki moved closer, wielding his stick.

A wise action, Simba thought.

Rafiki poked Scar with the edge of it and satisfied to see there was no movement, he moved closer and used his thumb and forefinger to lift one of Scar's eyelids. He nodded and made a small clucking noise in his throat. "Yes, as I thought," he mumbled. He moved down Scar's body, taking in the various cuts and contusions, and stopped at his back leg. Simba followed Rafiki trying to think like the mandrill, and take in the situation. "It is best to take everything in first. Don't think about anything else, not the sand under your paws or the sun on your back, or anything inside of your head. We just look. We don't judge, just collect."

Simba didn't know if it was possible for him to see his uncle in such an objective way. But he followed Rafiki. He really did look dead. Except for small rise and fall of his side, Simba would have said that he was. Rafiki leaned in, knocking his teeth together in concentration.

"Very, very bad," he said. "Here, I'll help you. You want to save this fur ball then we have to move now." Simba stayed rooted to the spot. If only it could have been Scar in the gorge that day. "Get him up. I need the sun and he doesn't. There's not much time." Simba didn't want to have contact with his uncle, and shied away from the idea of having to heft him over his own back. Rafiki had stopped by Scar's injured back foot.

Simba swallowed against the lump in his throat, and padded closer to Rafiki, who had one of Scar's legs lifted up in his paws. Simba knelt down, and Rafiki placed the leg over his shoulders, so he was able to nose underneath his uncle, until his body was slumped over Simba's. Even though Simba was tall, his uncle was lanky and his limbs dragged in the dirt. Scar moaned. Simba didn't realize how light his uncle was. The weight across his back was so slight, almost to be absent. They had all been starving while he was away.

The contact was like hot coals raking against his fur. He wanted him off of his back now, and he moved up Pride Rock, ascending the steep stones, until he stood on the jutting precipice and then he stopped, realizing that the only place he could go was into the cave. The cave where his mother and father used to sleep, the place where he and Nala now spent their nights, and the thought of putting his uncle in that same spot, somewhere he had always associated with love and warmth, made him recoil.

Rafiki stood by his side, and motioned for him to go in, but he couldn't move. He couldn't shake how much a desecration it would be to his father's memory. As if to prove his point, Scar shifted, and mumbled, "Mufasa."

Simba shifted his weight and fought the urge to shoulder him to the ground.

"Just to the edge of the cave, Simba," Rafiki said. "That will be enough light. Hurry now, the sun will set soon."

Simba looked over his shoulder at his kingdom. The sun was touching the horizon, burning fiery red, and angry. He moved towards the cave, dropping down into a crouch and rolled his Uncle from his back. He hit the ground with a small gasp of air, and Simba stepped back, feeling lighter. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Is this right, Rafiki?" He said without thinking. But in what way did he mean? His return? His helping his Uncle? This decision that was certain to affect all decisions that came after? His place as king?

"Very right. That is a good spot for what we'll be doing." Rafiki laid the leaf bundle he had brought with him on the ground, and untied the vine that held it shut. "I will need your help, Simba. The pain will awaken him, and he will not be happy, delirious probably. Maybe this will be to our advantage. Try to listen to him. See what he has to say."

Simba scoffed, but moved closer. "What should I do?" he felt as useless as a cub. The same cub who could do nothing to stop the stampede and save his father. That little cub who still trusted his bloodthirsty uncle. The lion who was to cowardly to do what was right, and protect his kingdom. Instead he was sheltering and helping the lion who had caused all of his problems. A quick bite to his throat and it would all be over, but he knew he couldn't do it, even though he was disgusted by the lion in front of him. And maybe, even if he tried it wouldn't work. His uncle had been rejected. If not to the stars where did lions go? Maybe he could never die. He was immortal, his mane as dark as a starless night, here to roam forever, a phantom, and if Rafiki did nothing, he would awake sometime in the night and wander away, dissipating into the darkness.

Rafiki's voice pulled him from his reverie. "I need to set this leg, or he will die."

Simba looked at the blood encrusted leg, as he moved closer, he smelled the scent of death, like rotting meat.

"I need to open it and clean it, and set the bone."

"You can do that?" Simba asked, and looked at the mandrill.

Rafiki held up his hands and flexed his thumbs. "We mandrills have a little something extra." He grinned.

Simba peered down at his thumbless paws and tried to bend them with the same dexterity that Rafiki showed with his strange extra appendage.

"Picking bugs from friends wouldn't be nearly as much fun if we had your clumsy paws. We'd be knocking each other out of our homes day and night. I see the way lions bat at everything," Rafiki said. He chortled.

He moved over to the open bundle and looked at his tools. He hummed to himself, nodding and arranging them in a way Simba didn't understand. There would be no way he could wield any of those with his own paws, and he wondered at the diversity of the Pridelands.

"You will need to hold him down. Simba, please, I don't want to lose my head to this excuse of a former king," Rafiki said.

"He might not wake up," Simba said.

"For that to be true, he would be dead." Rafiki said. From the bundle he took a long sharp rock, and held it in between his thumb and forefinger. Rafiki had narrowed the tip to a point. He looked to Simba. Simba moved closer to his uncle putting his front legs on his Scar's thin shoulder, and the other against his neck, avoiding a bite mark from the hyenas.

"Okay," Rafiki said and rubbed the stone tool between his hands. "I don't know which one of us will come out alive in the end." He laughed a little.

Simba raised an eyebrow and let out a deep sigh.

Rafiki drew the sharp stone through the scab. Blood began to flow around the jutting broken bone. "Clean through," Rafiki said.

Simba looked away. He looked at his uncle's black mane, of the color of his fur against his uncle's darker coat. Rafiki moved back to the leaf that held his tools and picked up a small round bowel that was filled with a brown viscous liquid. He dabbed it around the wound. "The next part will hurt," Rafiki said. Simba nodded. And made sure he had a good grasp against his uncle's shoulder. Though he couldn't see him putting up much of a fight in the state he was in.

Rafiki mumbled as he worked, strange words that Simba didn't understand, almost like the nonsense rhyme he had heard him saying when Rafiki had found him after he'd run from Timon and Pumba. And with his own head pressed against his Scar's mane, holding him tight, he heard mingled in with Rafiki's words, the protests of his Uncle. First a low whimper.

Rafiki cut in, "Don't let him move. This is very delicate work."

Simba looked to the side, and saw Rafiki's nimble fingers maneuvering the bone back into place.

"Mufasa," Scar said.

Simba turned back towards his uncle at the word, a fire deep in his stomach igniting. Scar's voice didn't rise above a whisper. His eyes were tightened in pain. Simba wanted to move. He couldn't stand being this close to him. He saw the three slash marks across his Uncle's face, and he stayed put. He had lost his temper. That was everything he didn't want to be. He needed to be cool headed, to think through his decisions. A good king didn't react like that in anger. It was something Scar would have done. He bit his lip. He shifted.

"It was never a game," Scar hissed through his teeth. The consonants hard and fast, and bitten, and then the whimpering started again, the shifting of muscles under Simba's hold, the ripple perceivable down the length of Scar's thin body. And then, "why, why, why?" over and over again, and some more incomprehensible words.

"Rafiki, are you almost done?"

"Shh." the mandrill said. "Takes time."

"I killed you. I killed you," Scar said, low and fast. The words struck deep, like barbs, and Simba felt heat under his fur and skin moving through his body, making him draws his claws. And then Scar shifted, bucking with all of his weight, and Simba pushed with all of his strength against him. Scar's eyes were open, but caught in the light of the outside. He appeared blinded, his front feet kicking outwards, his claws extended, and one set raked through Simba's chest fur, catching and tearing.

"Almost done, just hold him still, a bit longer."

"I'm trying," Simba said. Even though he was superior in strength, his uncle was fighting for his life, and the adrenaline coursing through his body, controlling his limbs, trying to get him away from the pain in his leg, made him fight like a much younger, stronger lion. Simba did all he could to keep him from moving, but another slash to his upper leg, caused him to let out a roar, and he barely stopped himself from batting Scar across the skull.

"Almost done," Rafiki said. "Almost, just need to wrap it. Keep him still. Don't let him move. "

"I don't know what to do." Simba laid his weight across his uncle, but he slithered out from under him, his nails screeching against the stones, dragging deep white marks into the floor of the cave. Rafiki moved swiftly, picking up his stick, and leapt in front of the lion. With one fast movement, he brought it down over his head, and with a small gasp, Scar collapsed.

**A/N Thank you for reading. All feedback is appreciated. It doesn't have to be long. I'd love to hear anything from my readers. **


	10. Chapter 10

The feeling was similar, not the same, but some elements were familiar. The feeling of the cool stone under his head. The smell of something medicinal. A dull feverish pain. A great throbbing throughout his whole body. And the mandrill. Scar couldn't remember why he was here. But he knew that he had lived through this before. And then he heard the voice of Mufasa and Ahadi. They were talking, but he couldn't interact with them. They were in the cave with him. He couldn't open his eyes.

In the darkness, their voices played around his ears. Mufasa's voice was light, high, the voice of a cub, and his father's voice floated up from the darkness. It struck him funny that he should even remember that voice. He didn't know why. His position in time confused him. There was Simba, and there was Mufasa and in some way they were one in the same, but he couldn't separate them in that moment, as if the two golden beings had fused together. But now the cub spoke in the voice of his brother, and as he focused, the words drifted up faster and clearer from the darkness, and he could understand them.

"Dad, what does Taka mean?" Mufasa said. They were talking about him. He pricked up his ears, and even though he didn't seem to have a body, the feeling of his ears moving seemed real.

"You're mother and I thought long and hard about what to name you two."

"Well I already know what Mufasa means, but what about Taka? I thought it meant dirt. But why would you name him that?"

Something pushed against Scar's face, and he put a paw up to push it away.

"It does mean dirt," Ahadi said. "Where does everything come from and where does everything go?" His father's deep voice echoed through the darkness, bouncing off walls he couldn't see.

"Dirt?" Mufasa asked.

"Everything does. The trees grow from it. All life comes from the earth, you and me and every other creature that roams over the land. When we die we return to it, and the grass that grows over our bodies feeds the wildebeest. We eat the wildebeest, and when we die the cycle starts over again. And from the dirt grows the most beautiful world imaginable. It's a foundation. Cubs, like you and Taka are, have your whole lives ahead of you."

"So someone with the name Taka will make something beautiful?" Mufasa asked.

"That's what your mother I can only wish for," Ahadi said. Their voices hovered above him like the vultures, and he opened his eyes to see the Mandrill standing in front of him, and he didn't know who he was, Taka or Scar, cub or lion, but his claws were out, and something had him by the mane, and the mandrill had this stick raised above his head, and he knew himself for the briefest of moments, the deposed king Scar, and then it came crashing down over his head.

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"You can't let that overgrown fleabag sleep in there. He'll have your head for a breakfast muffin."

"I don't want him in there either. But Rafiki says he needs to be somewhere out of the sun."

Voices drifted into the cave, and Scar rolled over, letting out a small groan from pounding pain around his eyes.

"I can't believe you're letting him stay. Earth to Simba, he tried to eat me. And you know that's number one on my list of unforgivable acts, followed closely by near destruction of your home! If you somehow forgot that little fact."

"Timon, I didn't forget. But I want to question him."

He tried to focus on the voices, but the grogginess surrounding him, like a thick morning fog made it near impossible.

"About what? What could he possibly tell you. Simba, are you thinking straight, maybe in that fight he knocked something loose in your head. We're talking about your murderous, revengeful, manipulative uncle, here. I don't even know the guy, and I wouldn't touch him with a thirty foot pole."

"Well, he's not going anywhere even if he wants to. Rafiki, said the pain in his leg would be enough to keep him out for awhile."

"Yeah, but does that monkey know your Uncle or what? Because if you're sleeping in there with him, what are the chances that he doesn't rip your throat out?"

"Timon, didn't you come here for a reason?" Simba said and Scar detected the annoyance.

Everything was heavy, his thoughts slow, and thick, and he struggled against the fog, knowing he should be disturbed by his lack of faculties, but somehow numb to the point where concern was nothing more than a thought, a passing blip. Much easier to keep his head against the cold stones, the throb in his leg, a tiny pulse now, his head heavy and warm. Simba's voice echoed from outside the cave, down the passage, and reached him as if from miles and miles away.

"Did you see Nala?" Simba asked.

"No, but , really Simba, I have something to tell you I think you might like to know. Look, I was on my way back to my home, you know to see Ma, and all my siblings. Anyway I was getting near to the watering hole, and I hear this cackling, and you know my fur just about stands up on its own, because I know that laugh. Like any brave meerkat, I grabbed my tail and dropped behind a rock to do some investigating, and lo and behold, one of those fleabag mutts is making a gazelle into his late morning brunch. And I only saw the one, but pee-yew, did I smell a whole murderous mob of them."

"Okay." Simba said with a sigh. "I figured they wouldn't leave so easily. Where was it exactly?"

"About fifty feet from the waterhole, back in the valley."

"Okay, Timon, I appreciate you coming back to tell me. I'll talk to the lionesses about it. I'm sure someone else caught the scent."

"Simba, just be careful, okay. I'm thinking maybe I should stick around, make sure your scraggly pelt doesn't become someone's breakfast."

"I appreciate your concern, Timon, but everything's going to be okay. It's going to take a while for everything to get back to normal."

"Yeah, especially with the murderous carcass of an uncle in your living room."

His first thought when freed nominally of the fogginess was to move. The cave he was in smelled strongly of Simba and Nala, not being able to understood, he felt fear when he thought of Simba. The urge to get up and move, get away from that scent, gave him the strength to stand. His back leg had been secured with a few pliant green branches, and one thick one, and wrapped in vines and leaves. The smell of medicinal herbs made him think of Rafiki. And his thoughts caught up to his fear. The voices outside had faded away and Simba's scent had lessened, meaning he had left the entrance of the cave.

Though knowing his nephew and the paranoia that now seemed to possess him, he wouldn't have left the cave unguarded, most likely one of his former pride members stood outside right this moment. It was best to stay put for the time being. And moving had sent the now familiar sensation of spinning back to his head, but refusing to lay back down, he sat delicately on his haunches leaning slightly to not aggravate the pain. For some reason it hurt much less then he thought it should. Probably some ointment Rafiki had put on it. The wounds and bite on his back had been caked in mud, and he had the slight recollection to that being one of Rafiki's main methods of treating wounds. It did wonders to soothe the sting and ache.

He thought that perhaps the plants and ointments were giving him a false perception of his own strength. It was amazing how fast Simba and Nala's scent had overtaken his own, mere days since he had been ousted. Shivers accosted him. He supposed from infection. He felt a great gut gripping anger. And he shifted, wanting nothing more than to move, to reclaim his kingdom with one well thought slash of his paw. Or bite straight through Simba's windpipe. But that wouldn't do. No, if only he could reach someone, he could ensure his survival until he was well enough to make another move. And as if on cue, he heard the voice he had wanted to hear.

"Let me in."

"Nala, it's not safe."

"I don't care. I'm the queen. Now let me in."

**A/N: Hi to all my readers! I hope you're enjoying the story. I would love to hear from you. Good or bad, let me know what you think of the story so far. **


	11. Chapter 11

"I don't care. I'm the queen. Now let me in," Nala said.

He had never heard her talk to one of the lionesses like that before. As his daughter entered, he shifted, trying to get a better look. Even when she had been part of his pride, he thought of her rarely. He would have stretches of melancholy, he put down to hunger, that would make him think of her; try to see something of himself in her: her stature, her attitude, her outlook. He observed her from afar. Though one time, when she had gone out hunting, he had slunk behind her, making sure the wind was blowing backwards, so there was no chance she could catch his scent. He watched her movements as she stalked her pray. She used stealth, lithe movements, placing her paws in the exact right spot, avoiding the driest grass, and the broken stick that would give away her position, moving in such a way, if he didn't have her scent he would have lost her. When she attacked, there was no hesitation. She moved precisely, knowing where to launch forward, where to land, and where to deliver the bite. Despite himself, he had been in awe.

If his coordination wasn't compromised by his left eye, surely he would have moved in the same way. The doubt, he had first felt at Sarafina's words, "She's yours." - It had been enough to make him hesitate, to spare her life. Now, he could see the truth. There were parts of himself he could clearly see in her; Her eyes, that shift from blue to green that the light would bring out in certain angles, in the reflection of the watering hole was the same trick in his own.

When she entered the cave, besides the idea that she would truly be an adversary, that she possessed the same faculties as him, he realized that manipulating her wouldn't be a feat easily accomplished. To gain her trust, he would have to stoop, he would have to give her something of himself, be it true or not. He wondered, if such a ploy would have worked on him at one time, and how effective his own tactics would be against someone with the same mind to manipulate. It would take cunning. His heart rate spiked at the idea of outsmarting someone who was on his level. _Oh, what a game it would be_. Like taking himself on in a battle of wits. She also had a power that he didn't possess. He could admit to himself, there was something of his father, Ahadi in her, something of Mufasa too: lightness, he thought. Though, certainly, not incorruptible. She stopped and let out a sigh.

"I want to talk to you," she said.

"Nala, I didn't expect you. Simba I think must be quite concerned."

"I'm sure he is," she said, and moved closer, her eyes flashing in the small islets of light that fell across the floor. And then with a great resignation, she said, "I believe you."

"You do?" he said, and part of him wondered if he wasn't hallucinating the whole thing.

Nala sat down.

"I used to wonder," she said.

He couldn't read her, and it was frustrating. She sat still, her face locked on his, and spoke slowly and calmly.

"A long time ago, I used to speculate, usually, when I saw Mufasa and Simba together, but otherwise I was happy with just having Mom. And then as I grew older and learned the rules of the Pride Lands, and found that you hadn't killed me, I figured that you must have been too weak or cowardly to go through with it. You aren't known for your compassion, Scar."

Scar flashed his teeth. "But you've seen the error in your thinking. And I'm not the coward you seem to think I am."

"I never said that. You are the most cowardly, pathetic, contemptible lion I've ever known."

And the thought came to him that perhaps she was weak in this moment. She had come to him seeking an answer. She would believe him, because she would want something in him to be true. She must hold the hope that he might prove her initial idea of him false. "Nala, I turned to you. I took a risk. I revealed myself to you, because there's something I need to tell you. Something of great import."

She sat silently, regarding him with a scathing look, and thankfully waited for him to continue. "I don't know why I'm listening to you, but - but tell me what you want to say, before I change my mind."

"That night when Simba came back, what you saw, it was all an act, an attempt to save myself. And yes, yes, I suppose you could argue it was cowardly, but when faced with your own imminent death, you find yourself admitting to things you could never fathom. "

"Scar- " she said, a low growl in the back of her throat, chasing his name. "I won't listen to anymore lies."

"Nala, I wouldn't lie to you. You can't imagine how long I've wanted to tell you, but after years of not saying anything, the impetus wasn't there. I thought you would be happier not knowing your patronage if it meant your father was a lowly subject."

"You were the King's brother. He listened to you, believed you, loved you. You had more power than you could imagine, "she said.

He recoiled. "I grieved him," he said. "What it was like to be unexpectedly thrust into power, when I never dreamt in my life of obtaining such a position, the stress, I'm surprised I haven't gone gray by this point. I never wanted to be king," he said.

"Well, when you were in power, it certainly didn't look like that."

"Nala what I said, earlier, what I said on the night Simba returned, it was all true. Don't you see how he twisted my words? I was never meant to be in power, and he knew it. He knew the throne was his rightful place, and with that much conviction of course it would be easy to believe him. The pride wanted to believe him, because Simba had returned after all that time. He had always been beloved by the lionesses, by his own father. I'll admit I even had a soft spot for him at one point. He often came to me for guidance."

"Scar, stop," she said.

He was losing her. "Nala, I don't want to give you this idea, it truly pains me, but, how well do you know him? As a cub, it can be difficult to read someone else, and you of course only knew him in that part of your life, but as an adult observing his growth, he was always a bit deluded."

"Scar, I wouldn't say that." Her tail thrashed against the stone.

"No, no, not deluded- it's this leg, the pain, it's getting to me - no not deluded - enthusiastic, wouldn't you say for his role of becoming king? Now correct me if I misspeak, but wasn't it his bravado that almost resulted in your untimely deaths. A little excursion to the elephant graveyard, if I remember correctly."

"We were cubs. I can't believe I'm even having this conversation with you. Scar, "she hesitated. "Everything you say, I can't be sure what's true and what's not."

"Now that's not completely right, is it? You're the one who came to me with a declaration. So you know that it's not all a lie."

"You don't know- " she took a steadying breath. "How, so very, much I don't want to believe it. How I want nothing to do with you. I almost left. I was at the edge of the Pride Lands, and something made me turn around, and I came back."

"I understand, Nala. There are certain things, certain innate desires for something that can have control over our senses. And for you, a chance at family is…compelling. And now that Simba is king again-

"The rightful king," Nala interrupted.

"Yes," he ducked his head, "the rightful king and I'm being held in contention, for a crime I'm not guilty of-"

"Don't even try."

"Yes, well. Now that all I have left is this broken body of mine, I find myself desiring a connection as well. And Nala, please listen. You're the only lion I have left. You have to listen to me. You have to advocate for me, because without you they'll kill me."

"Simba, wouldn't do that."

"Don't you understand," his voice rose, stinging against his injured throat. "He already tried. I don't want to say it like this, but the truth must come out. Simba killed his father, and he tried to kill me, because of his desire for power. It's all so clear, I can't believe how blind the pride is to his deception."

"I saw you admit your crime. I saw you say of your own will that you killed Mufasa."

"I know, I know," he said, "but he was going to kill me, what choice did I have. I said the thing that could save my life. And it was wrong of me. But I only condemned myself. I knew my brother would see the truth. He'd always been there for me. Why not one more time?" He wondered if she would believe his lie.

Nala regarded him with a look he couldn't read. It frightened him, he had to admit. Gaining the knowledge that they were related, that she could possess his own strongest abilities had changed the way he viewed her. The energy it had taken to stand to say those words, had left him exhausted, and through the pull of the medicinal herbs, he could feel the first throbbing pain. He wanted to spit at the pain. How dare it control him, how dare it interfere with his plans, and as long as he was breathing, he wouldn't give in to it. If he was going to have to fight his own body as well, so be it. He wanted all of his focus to be on Nala, and it was from the corner of his eyes, that he could see her tailing wisping back and forth across the stones. He felt giddy recognition seeing the same tick he possessed when deep in thought.

His mother could always tell when he was thinking, and would often suggest with a grin, that he should go outside and with his tail, sweep away the debris from the entrance to their cave, It seem to possess a life of its own when he was lost in his own thoughts.

"I can tell there's something bothering you." he said.

"What would you know," she snapped back.

"Really, I don't wish to upset you, I'm only concerned. Though you can't fault me. I've never been a father before, nor know how to act in the role of one. The fault I suppose rests on my capricious nature, I see it in you as well."

You don't know me," she said.

She was doing what he was trying to do. She was extracting things from him, like a lion pulling porcupine quills from a naughty cub. He had the sudden desire to lean closer, to catch more of himself in her. How strange it was; He had never thought he would feel something akin to admiration for her, but the emotion seemed inverted to him, as if in seeing his characteristics in her, reflected not a love for his offspring, but a love for himself. Did parents love in such a way that wasn't egotistical? The thought was new to him, did all love stem from a desire to see ones best qualities in their loved ones, not viewing them as autonomous beings, but connected entities. So distracted by this thought he lost his point, only a stab of pain in his leg, bringing him back to the cave, and his daughter. If she was no more than an extension of himself, she would prove useful. He would need to tame those other elements that belonged to Sarafina. He needed the Nala that was all him.

"What did you see in my mother?" she said. "Why her?"

"A capricious whim," he said with a glance of his paw.

She drew her claws, but sat still.

He had upset her. "I'll tell you the truth, but I don't know if it's what you want to hear. But first, before we talk anymore, I need you to promise that you'll advocate for me." She didn't say anything.

"If Simba sees it in his heart of hearts to spare me, he can't exile me, until I've had the chance to recover my strength. I would have left already if it wasn't for this damn leg. You can't possibly think I would want to stay in this hell. Even a deposed king can tell when he's no longer wanted, and it's best to adventure to brighter savannas. "I know you can see it Nala. The way he's cracking under pressure. Simba suffered greatly on the day of the stampede it destroyed something in him, weakened his constitution, his mind." _A metaphor would do nicely here, _he thought. "A broken branch can stay on a tree, but it can never regrow, and the lightest weight will snap it completely."

"You know nothing about him."

"And neither do you. You know that. Years and years exist between you. How can you know him, when he was changed by that experience, and grew with such angst at his foundation into the lion he is now. He's damaged. He's in no way fit to be King."

"The great kings are with him. "

Her words caught him off guard, his own catching in his throat, a small hiccup that sent a shudder down his spine.

"That's something you will never be able to say about yourself," Nala said.

"No matter, I never thought hearing voices was a sign of sanity anyways," he said, tensing.

"You don't have that connection, and you never will, not after the things you done."

"I've done NOTHING WRONG!" His heart pounded in his ears, and his back leg throbbed, he breathed heavily, seeing spots, and shook his head trying to clear them.

Nala had stood up and was heading towards the entrance.

"Wait," he said, and he hated how desperate it sounded.

"I can't listen to anymore of this," she said, her voice soft and low, a threat in the darkness. And he felt his own chance at survival slipping away. He fumbled, found himself floundering, sifting through ideas, as she grew ever closer to the exit.

"Ask Simba about that day. The stampede. You'll see there's something wrong. You'll see he isn't fit to rule."

She was gone, and he was left alone in the darkness, only his own fast, wheezing breathes to keep him company. He heard talking, but couldn't make out her words. She spoke to the lioness outside the cave, and he pulled himself over to the shelf of rock where he used to sleep as a cub, close to his parents, Mufasa's own piece of rock always a little higher than his. He collapsed on to it.

**A/N: Reviews, comments, I would love to hear from you. What did you think of Nala and Scar's conversation? I hoped to give some insight into Scar's mindset in this chapter, as well as explore how he views himself in relation to Nala. Did it work for you? How about his attempt at manipulation? And if you're thinking all of it his lies are pretty twisted, good! That's what I was going for. :p**


	12. Chapter 12

Later that evening, to his chagrin, Rafiki entered the cave followed closely by Simba. Scar looked up from where he lay, the cave spinning with the movement. Rafiki peeled back the bandage, and inspected his work.

"My head," he managed to say, his voice weird to his own ears. He might have considered even a kind word to Simba if it meant that the cave would stop its sickening rotations.

"It must be bad, if that's the only quip I'm getting from you today," Rafiki said, "but your leg is healing better than I could have hoped. There is no infection."

"What's wrong with him," Simba said from the entrance of the cave. "I want him out of here by tonight."

"He needs water," Rafiki said. "Someone will have to get him down to the watering hole. Now, Scar can you stand?"

"Of course I can stand," Scar spat and lurched to his feet. If he had eaten anything it would have come up again. The sensation was akin to that dizzying roll down Pride Rock, and being able to only place weight on three of his legs, wasn't helping him find his balance.

"You may have knocked something loose in all the activity you've been up to," Rafiki said. "But I suspect a large part of your dizziness is resulting from dehydration." He turned to Simba, "Get him to the watering hole or you're going have one shriveled up lion on your hands." He chortled.

"He can make it on his own," Simba said, still refusing to enter the cave.

Scar hissed. "Of course I can make it on my own. I never asked for your help."

"Good. I wasn't offering," his nephew replied.

Scar took an unsteady step towards the cave entrance. The ground under his paw seemed to bubble outwards one moment and then shrink back, as if he were attempting to walk across a great sifting pit of sand. He could feel the places where he had connected with the outcropping ridges of Pride Rock when Simba tossed him over the side. Each stab of pain made him angrier, and when he got to Simba he was ready to kill him, standing there, straight backed, and a look of amusement on his face. He was enjoying this, watching his decrepit uncle have to crawl from the cave like some slimy thing coming into the light. He knew, though, if he lifted a paw to him, that would be it, there was no way he could stay upright.

"You're nothing like your father," Scar said. "Don't even pretend." He stepped out of the cave.

The pride followed him with their eyes as he moved down the precipice of Pride Rock. He could see them from their caves, their paws bathed in sunlight. Simba trailed behind him. As he moved, his head began to clear. It must have the cave that had muddled his thoughts. As he moved across the savanna at his slow pace, his nephew spoke quietly with Rafiki.

"How soon?" Simba asked.

"A few more days, at least," Rafiki replied.

"If your debating my fate, consider doing it out of my hearing range," Scar said. "If I have any say in the matter, I'd prefer not to me made into the royal throw rug."

"That would be too good for you," Simba said, raising his voice.

Scar sucked in the water, not realizing until that point just how thirsty he really was. And once he was sated, he remained in the spot, trying to overhear Simba and Rafiki. A scent from beyond the watering hole pulled him away. _Blood?_ He looked up. The scent mingled with the stench of the hyenas. He miss-stepped, "Great Kings!," he swore when he stepped back on his bad foot. He looked for his former cohorts. The scene though fresh, was at least a few hours old. Simba was talking to Rafiki, seemingly unware of the scent, his voice low, and fast.

Scar narrowed his eyes. The blood didn't smell like it had come from a hyena. A lion, he thought. What an idiot his nephew was, he must have Mufasa's sense of smell, because the odor was enough to send off some pretty powerful alarm signals for Scar. If he was in Simba's place, he would be concerned. He could use this information. Perhaps, revealing this information to him would be seen as a first redeeming step.

"Simba," he said, and then repeated it a little louder when he didn't look up. _Are you the king or not,_ he thought. Instead he said, "There's a scent over here." _If you were paying attention, or even had the capability to focus, you would have already noticed it._

"What kind of scent?" Simba said.

_Well, you idiot fur-ball, why don't you come over here and find out for yourself?_ He thought. "Some of my friends turned enemy, I believe."

Simba looked up with some concern and finally went over to where Scar had his nose to the ground. "It smells like blood."

"Yes, very astute," he said, and rolled his eyes.

"It smells like you," Simba said.

"It's not though, didn't your father teach you anything," he said before he could stop himself.

Simba flashed him a mouthful of teeth. But, surprisingly, didn't reply. He lifted his nose from the ground and scanned the horizon. Scar followed his line of vision, trying to see against the glow of the sun setting the savanna on fire. He blinked his eyes against the light and saw, in the distance, a small black form. It could have been the waving of the long grass in the warm breeze, or the sun spots, because when he blinked again it was gone. "Did you see it," Scar said. Simba trotted forward and stretched out his neck as if he could peer farther.

"Hyenas. I should let them have you," Simba said.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't me that they want."

"It's just a scent it could be old. After the fighting, after what you did to the Pridelands, I wouldn't be surprised if their scent never leaves."

"You know it's not. Tell me your sense of smell isn't in that sorry of a state. It's much too strong to be anything but a few hours old." He was struck by these words, as if he'd had this conversation before, and he was sure the same thing had passed at one point between himself and Mufasa. Mufasa's sense of smell was laughable at best, at worst he used to think it might mean his death. But it hadn't been that. It was this cub. Some deluded part of him latched on to that thought, and wanted it to be true, even though he knew he had orchestrated his brother's death.

When the plan had been a success, he hadn't doubted. He had been proud of his achievements, his dream of becoming king realized. That had been in the beginning when the Pridelands had still been verdant, and alive. As time had passed, and the grass had wilted, turned brown, bristled, and broke, and withered into the dry cracked ground, he had begun to seek someone else to blame - and sometimes when he was really hungry, or Zazu wouldn't shut his trap, or the hyenas would come to the cave entrance and complain – sometimes, he found he could believe that Simba had caused the whole thing.

He had been the one to orchestrate it, and Scar was little more than a pawn in his game. It was fleeting really. How embarrassing it would be to be outsmarted by a cub, even hypothetically. It was better in that sense that he should take the blame upon himself. But he found it in his nature to want to blame someone else for his misfortune. It was in those moments that he almost missed Mufasa. Of course, he could never say it aloud. These ambivalences that he had never felt before caused him to stand and pace, agitated, and confused, and a horrible headache growing behind his eyes in the days of famine.

His days were filled with ennui, anxiety, and hunger, and they all seemed to flow into each other, until it was all one expanse; a grim, sunless existence, and discarded bones filling his cave. He would gnaw on them trying to abate the hunger that was ever present. And he couldn't understand what had gone wrong. The sky was always covered in clouds. They never broke. They never opened. Sometimes, the wind would howl at night, so loud, echoing through the cave, and in his sleep it would become a great roar that reverberated through the stone and into himself, grabbed ahold of him, and would not let him go, leaving him frazzled and anxious. He snapped at the hyenas, bullied the lionesses, and his kingdom dried up along with the watering hole. A small muddy puddle.

He watched Simba, wondering what his next move would be. Scar would mount a defensive. This was a problem that needed to be solved now and right away before it escalated. It was best to squelch their blood lust before they had the opportunity to plan. He suspected that Shenzi had a plan. She was plotting something and would enact it soon, if she hadn't already. His nephew would have to be swift with is actions. He could either attempt to form another truce, or better yet, Simba would have the ability to rally the lionesses. Prepare for battle.

They would do anything for the son of their fallen golden king, and if that meant genocide of the hyenas they would do it. And there it was. That was how he would win them over. He would fight alongside Simba. Scar knew the hyenas better than anyone, had known them most of his life. Shenzi particularly, and though at times she proved infuriatingly inscrutable, he knew her weakness. She cared too much. The hyenas were her family. They were a tight knit community, more than any other he had ever known. Lions were disposed to pride, trying to act as a unit never worked as well as it should have. Someone's ego almost always got in the way. But hyenas were different. They worked in groups. If he could prove himself by being useful, by saving the pride, perhaps he could be forgiven.

If he could get Nala to believe his story that Simba was framing him then the rest of the pride would be drawn to his side. He would need to make Simba look both heroic, and mad in the same instant. If Simba were to die in battle with the hyenas then Scar would be back in power. He would be loved. He would be celebrated as the savior king; his strong, but damaged nephew falling to save his kingdom, and passing on the position to his uncle who had done everything in his power to save his life.

An electricity ran through his fur, and the thought of the plan made his heartbeat fast, took away the tiredness and even the ache from his cuts and bruises; gave him something that he hadn't felt in such a long time, hope, a plan, something to work towards. Because when thinking, plotting, doing, he was the happiest. It was only after he achieved what he wanted that normalcy took over and robbed him of those feeling. This time it would be different. He would win the kingdom and they would adore him.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! I would love to hear from you! Comments, reviews, critiques, anything. :D **


	13. Chapter 13

A few weeks passed. Scar returned to the ledge that he often slept on when his brother had been in power, distanced from the outcropping projection of Priderock by a winding path. He would still sense at odd times someone watching him, and he knew that Simba had instructed the lionesses to keep an eye on him.

He rarely saw Simba. He had been making frequent visits to the watering hole and sometimes Scar would see him from far away, his red mane standing out against the rest of the golden field. Green was returning to the Pride lands. From where he lay he could see how it started around the edge of the water, and then moved outwards until it covered the savanna.

Simba let him stay because of his injury. By pointing out the hyenas and providing the suggestion that they might cause a threat, he had effectively given himself another chance; Had in some way proven himself useful to Simba, though it wasn't hard to tell that his nephew was deeply distrustful of him. When they did speak and it was rare, it would be a one or two word exchange.

As soon as he recovered enough Simba had stated, clearly, that Scar would need to find his own food. He had been permitted to live on the grounds, but was essentially in an unstated form of exile. He had overheard Rafiki say that with the injury to his leg, he would essentially be lame. His ability to hunt would be greatly impaired. In light of this, Simba's declaration seemed little more than a death sentence. For the past few days, Nala had been bringing him food. At first she had refused to speak to him and then one day when she dropped off a gazelle leg, he stopped her.

"Nala," he said. She turned away. "Nala, thank you," he said and looked at the hunk of meat. He wanted to question her if she had spoken to Simba, but he thought in order to get the answers he wanted a direct approach wasn't the best tactic. "You're the only lion I ever see these days," he said and stretched in the sunlight.

"Are we lonely?" Nala asked.

Something seemed different about her. She wasn't nearly as emaciated as she had been before. All of the pride was starting to fill out again. "You look tired," he said. He could tell he had caught her off guard.

"Well, you don't want to hear my impression of you." But she didn't leave.

"Oh please, a critic is only jealous."

She laughed. The sound was clear and high, genuine, he thought. But she cut it off quickly, like she hadn't meant to let it escape, and almost looked as surprised as he felt.

"Though really, is that nephew of mine causing you undue stress?" he asked.

And for a minute he thought she might speak to him. She opened her mouth and then closed it and shook her head.

"I understand if you don't want to speak to me. But I was thinking. Really it's all I have time to do now." He said and stifled a yawn. "And I remembered a game that my mother taught me, you're grandmother Uru. A game that she taught only to Mufasa and me. For posterity, I thought you might be interested."

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.

"We all played it together, Mufasa, Sarabi, …Sarafina."

"A game?" she said.

"Yes," he said. "Strategy." It requires pebbles though. My mother had her own set, but I couldn't even fathom where that might be now. She said she collected them down by the watering hole, so I suppose it wouldn't be too hard to replicate. "

"What's it called," she said.

He had her interest, and he fought the urge to show his teeth. "Bao," he said.

"And how many stones would it take?" she said.

"Thirty-two for each of us."

From his ledge it was possible to view the outcropping section of Pride Rock, and he followed her gaze in that direction.

"Is something bothering you?" he asked. "I recognize that look," he said.

"Oh you do? Please, what do I look like?"

"Dissatisfied," he said.

"I suppose that is an expression you would know well," she shot back. "I have to get back," she said.

"You'll look for those stones?"

"I don't know," she said. But he had a feeling that it was still a possibility.

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Scar stretched and winced at the pain in his leg. He stood slowly, achingly, and made the slow trek down the side of Pride Rock. In the early morning, the lionesses slept. When he looked up, he saw Simba surveying the Pridelands. The morning was still dim, the sun barely peaking over the horizon, and the night bled upwards, purple, and orange, fading into a new day. He could feel Simba's eyes as he moved through the tender sprigs of new grass. He tested his back foot periodically, and let out a hiss of pain each time, as the bones in his leg ground together, refusing to fully support his weight. At least, for the time being, Nala would continue to bring him food, but in the future if he couldn't use his leg, there would be no way that he could hunt for himself. As he grew closer to the watering hole, even before he caught the scent he found his fur standing on end. He turned around swiftly, staggering a bit, his balance thrown off, but didn't see anything.

The scent was much stronger than the other day. Hyenas were close by, or had been just moments before. Above it all that scent of rot, stronger even than before, clearly lion blood. He stood frozen, feeling exposed in the wide prairie. His legs shook, and he cowered against the idea of having to face the hyenas again. He wanted to retreat, to run, but to do so would leave him even more vulnerable. Right now, he had a clear view of the fields. Nothing moved. His leg protested as he lowered himself into a pouncing position. Only the tip of his mane, and his eyes were visible above the swaying grass. He scanned the savanna, fighting the pounding of his heart, forcing himself to stay where he was. It was strange that the scent of blood was so pungent and yet he couldn't see it anywhere, it lingered in the air, so strong, that it made him want to choke. It was a signal: leave this place for it is haunted.

He shivered and fought the image of his brother that was pulling at his senses. He shook his head, cursing the thought, and slunk forward through the grass. At the shore of the watering hole, he looked down into the water. Under the scar on his left eyes, Simba's mark was dark and crusted; three slashes that started near his snout, and went upwards stopping at the edge of his mane.

The scent grew stronger the closer he drew, and he looked up once again scanning the horizon, trying to make out any shapes. A breath of heat rustled the fur on his shoulder and he spun around, but no one was there. He lapped from the lake quickly, but kept his eyes on the horizon, his fur on edge. He retreated back to his cave, looking to the precipice of Pride Rock, but Simba was gone.

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"It could be nothing," Simba said to Nala. "The Pride lands have barely had time to return to how they were. It would make sense if that scent lingered." He wanted to know what Nala felt, but recently she had been distancing herself. And he was doing his best to understand. Of course, though, he knew the reason. Scar. Everything always came back to his uncle. And allowing him to live, allowing him to remain in the Pridelands until his injuries had healed enough for him to scrounge on his own, was quickly becoming a decision that Simba regretted. But what could he have done?

Showing mercy was what a good king would do, and those three marks he had added to Scar's face were more than enough to remind Simba that he didn't want to be the other kind. kmowing that that anger existed within him, knowing that the predisposition to hurt a weak, defenseless lion, tore at him. But Scar had a way with words. As sharp as any claws. Almost the same as being raked down the back. And more to prove to himself that he wasn't the same kind of lion as Scar, he had decided to show mercy, but his magnanimous gesture was now starting to wear thin, and the haunted look in Nala's expression made him want to do rid of Scar right then and there.

"Did you settle the problem with the elephants," she asked.

"Yes, they weren't too happy to find their territory overrun by vultures, but we came to an agreement in the end."

"One you think they'll uphold?"

"We'll just have to see," he said exasperated. "Are you okay, Nala?" he said, growing more concerned by her appearance. In the sunlight, he could see how her eyes were puffy, her coat dull.

"I'm just tired," she said. "It's been quite a change."

"You were happier under Scar's rule?" He hated the words the moment he said them.

"No," she said, her ears sticking straight up, "Why would you think that?"

"Nothing," he said. "I can't talk. I'm not bright eyed and bushy-tailed either. It's hard work trying to get everything back in order."

"Well, we knew it wasn't going to be simple."

"I'm not complaining, Nala. It's just- I know I did the right thing, I can see that now, but coming out of exile, leaving the life I had made for myself with Timon and Pumba, it's been hard to adjust to."

"You didn't want to be king anymore when you were with them? You didn't think about it even once? That's not the Simba I grew up with."

"No, of course, I still wanted to be king. But after the day in the gorge, after what Scar did-," he said with a low growl.

"Simba, he told me something," she said after a moment, like perhaps this was the thing that had been weighing her down. He tensed his muscles, feeling his adrenaline course through his body, as if it was Scar before him and not Nala. And in a way, and he couldn't believe he would think it, but in a way they were similar. It hadn't been until Scar had said Nala was his daughter, but the thought, he couldn't get it out of his head. Nala was Scar's daughter? Part of Nala was part of Scar?

It had made him sick, made his insides curl up, but he still loved her. He couldn't deny that. But the feeling was polluted by that connection. He hated himself for feeling that way. This was Nala, his best friend, the lion he loved, the one he saw growing older with, starting a family. Their cubs would continue to rule. But a part of him feared that their cubs would be just as bloodthirsty and ruthless, and uncaring, as the uncle he despised. To blame Nala for that connection was unthinkable. The more he seemed to fight it, the more the conviction grew within, until sometimes he couldn't even look at her. Other times he found he could push it aside, when before him he recognized the lioness from his childhood; Smiling, laughing, giving him the correct advice when he would start to get lost in his thoughts, pulling him back when he would start to despair. He could cast away all of the ugly thoughts that came to him at night, when Nala slept next to him.

He would think of his father and see him in the gorge. He would gasp and claw at the rocks in his sleep. If Simba had ran just a little faster, jumped higher, he could have gotten out of the gorge. If he had been braver, hadn't called his dad down into the wildebeest he would still be alive. Simba would awake, gasping, and have to stand and move before the sensation overtook him. He would go to the watering hole and gulp mouthfuls of cold water. If he submerged himself completely and let it wash over him, the chill would take away all of his thoughts, and give him some peace. But now the very present scent of hyenas pervaded that area. Yet, they were never seen. It infuriated him. It scared him; This invisible enemy with only their scent to place them. It had to be a mind game, a warning.

"Simba," Nala said, "Are you listening to me?"

He snapped his head upwards, and looked at her. "Sorry," he said. "What were you saying?"

"I was talking about Scar. But what I wanted to ask you was if you've seen my mother."

"Sarafina?" he asked. And he looked over the pride lands, trying to spot the lionesses that would be returning from the hunting ground later. "She's not out hunting."

"No," she said. "Simba, I'm getting worried. It's been two days, and no one's seen her. It's not like her to leave. "

"Have you been talking to her?"

"I haven't," she said. "I was angry. I couldn't believe she didn't tell me. I didn't even notice she was gone. But I'm really worried Simba, I looked everywhere I couldn't find her. I can't find her scent. Sarabi doesn't know where she went either. Do you think she's okay?" Nala asked.

"I'm sure she is."

"I think she must be as upset as I was. I keep thinking that maybe she just needed time on her own to sort it all out, but I didn't mean to act like that. I was just-"

"I'm sure she understands."

"I don't know Simba. How could she keep that from me?"

"I think she wanted to protect you. Come on. She'll come back when she's ready."

"But the blood-"

"It's old. It's Scar's fault. The smell of the hyenas. It's a reminder to me that he's still with us."

Nala nodded slowly, but he could tell she doubted him. They all doubted him. And he turned away, seeing in her all the things he didn't need. And the fear that maybe that blood did belong to one of them, nettled now in his mind. He couldn't acknowledge it. Sarafina would come back. She would be all right.

**A/N: Thank you for reading. And to my two lovely reviewers from last chapter, TMNTMentalistTLKLover and a guest, I really appreciate it. I would love to hear from all the other readers out there. Even something simple makes me a really happy writer. :) Don't know if you've noticed or not, but I've been doing weekly updates lately. I plan to stick to this, so you can expect a new chapter every Tuesday. **


	14. Chapter 14

The days bled into one another; the sun rising and falling in a fiery arch. From Scar's ledge, he heard Simba let out a loud roar. A group of nesting birds shot into the air, and he watched as the lionesses slunk through the grass, returning from their hunt. It was a call to meet, but he stayed where he was. His back leg had been aching more than normal this morning and putting weight on it sent a fiery pain all along the muscle.

A slow movement over by the waterhole caught his eye. He blinked, narrowing his eyes, and moved as close as he could to the edge of the cliff. Hyenas. The lionesses were oblivious as the wind must have been in the mutts' favor. In-between the four hyenas a lioness limped. He could see that her coat was bloody. So that was who the scent of blood had come from, he thought.

He moved even closer to the edge until his front paws were hanging over, and tried to make out who it was. One of Simba's pride? And then with what felt like a smack to his snout he realized it was Sarafina. It could have been Nala, but he could see her standing next to Simba on Priderock, in deep discussion with the other lionesses. He wondered if, perhaps, the watering hole incident was what they were discussing. If perhaps Sarafina was the topic of their meeting. And then before he could move, even before he had a moment to think of how he could work this into his plan, the hyenas moved, and he saw all three attack at once. It was over in an instant. Sarafina dropped to the ground.

The hyenas tore away, their coats moving through the green and brown grasses. He stared wide-eyed, not believing. They had killed her. Something stirred in him that he couldn't name. It welled up in his chest, made him bare his teeth, draw his claws, so that when he did stand he didn't feel the burn in his leg. Had she cried out? He didn't know, but from his spot he could see the lions that had gathered on Priderock were now moving in a frenzy.

He heard a cry from the top of the rock that sounded like Nala, and all in unison they moved from the cliff face and descended down the mountain. They gathered around the watering hole and formed a wide circle around Sarafina.

His heart beat quickly. They would suspect him, he thought. They wouldn't be thinking; they would want someone to blame and he was the only one who hadn't been at the meeting. He backed up, his tail lashing. Staying here didn't guarantee his innocence. They might think that he was still working with the hyenas, that this had been part of his plan.

He heard the anguished roar above everything else, and it quieted everything; the savanna seeming mourn with the pride.

The hyenas had wanted his attention, he thought. It had been meant not only as a warning to the pride, but a clear message to him. Shenzi, he thought. Shenzi must have known about Nala. Shenzi must have known about Sarafina. And the urge to run hit him strongly.

He could see Nala below pacing fiercely back and forth and Simba standing by the body, his head bowed, frozen. And Scar looked to the steep drop off of the ledge. Really, the only way down was descend near the precipice of Priderock, but he tested the ledge anyway, moving his paws forward so they rested near its edge. He could see a few footholds and a shelf of stone maybe ten feet down that he might be able to get to. He looked back over his shoulder. Simba was now trying to keep up with Nala's pacing. She shook her head from side to side, and roared again.

Simba looked in Scar's direction. He had to jump. If he could make it to the ledge then he could get down from there, but where would he go, he thought. He couldn't outrun them. He needed to calm down. If he could convince them of his innocence, if he was as just broken up about it as them, if he could demonstrate to Simba that he would be useful in a fight against the hyenas,he might just be valuable enough to keep alive. He would have to wait for them to come to him. He couldn't throw any suspicion upon himself. He must seem completely oblivious to the discovery.

With his heart still pounding, he crawled back into the shadows and dropped to the ground, turning so his back leg didn't hurt and closed his eyes, slowing his breathing. Soon, he heard rocks being kicked up, clattering and pinging as they bounced off of the cliff wall. Scar lifted his head as Simba rounded the corner with a roar.

He opened his eyes, taking in Simba's appearance: blood coated his paw, his eyes were wild, his mane blown backwards with the speed with which he had run from the watering hole. Scar turned lazily, but careful not to expose his underside.

"Ah, Simba, having a bad day?" he said.

Simba let out a hoarse breath, his fur bristling, his paw raised, but now Scar could see there was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

"Successful hunt then, was it?" Scar asked and gestured towards Simba paw.

As if seeing the blood for the first time Simba took a step back. "Sarafina," he said at last. "What do you know about what happened at the watering hole," the words were growled.

Scar knew this was his one chance to prove himself free of guilt. He would need to choose his words carefully. "What do you mean? Did you find her?" he sat up. "She's okay?" he said and then making sure that Simba saw his eyes lock on the blood, he said, "No." He took a step back. "No." He shook his head. "It can't be. You mean, she's dea-"

"Murdered," Simba said.

"Murdered?," Scar repeated. "It can't be." And even as he pretended, he felt something akin to sorrow, something foreign welling up in his chest. And it wasn't part of the act. In the fear of discovery, Sarafina's death hadn't struck him. But now, it was a deep ache he couldn't quantify.

And to his horror, the feeling robbed him of his faculties. He looked at the ground, struggling to find his next words. Mixed in with the revulsion and the deep loss, a flame seemed to grow and feed. He pushed past Simba, brushing him aside. He descended Pride Rock, and moved with speed he didn't know he still possessed over to the watering hole. And stopped in front of Sarafina's body. The whole place stank of hyenas. It pervaded the grass, and he looked at the lion at his feet. Her eyes were open, a deep bloody bite to her throat, and he put paw against her side. She was still warm. Her body was covered in scratches and bites and contusions. Some were old and scabbed over. Judging from how they were starting to heal she had been with the hyenas since she had gone missing. He let out a deep ragged breath. He pushed through the other lionesses, and noticed Nala laying nose-to-nose with her mother.

"Nala, " he said, but she didn't move, her eyes were locked on the horizon, and it was if she hadn't heard him. In between her shallow breathing he could hear her murmuring.

"Sarabi," he hissed over his shoulder. "Did you see what happened?"

"She can't be dead," Sarabi said. "I don't believe it. We were just hunting together a few suns ago, and..." her voice trailed away.

"But she is dead," he said, "and I need to know what happened."

"You mean, you don't know?" Nala said from the ground and lifted her head. She pushed herself up slowly. "You mean you weren't watching the whole time from up on your ledge?" she said and stood to look him in the eyes. "I'm sure you saw everything." He took a step back despite himself, caught off- guard by her perception.

"It was the hyenas," he said. "I can smell it everywhere." The fur on his back prickled. His heart hammered under his fur like the pounding of a thousand antelope hooves.

"Under whose orders," she said and moved forward, her tail lashing back and forth.

"You think I would side with those fleabags after what they tried to do to me," he snarled. "You think I would want anything to do with them? That I would have them hurt her?" he said, and though a part of him wanted to looked away, he continued to hold her gaze. Her claws her drawn, her features twisted, her teeth showing, but he kept calm, and his eyes darted to the side trying to capture a glimpse of Sarafina once again. "Don't look at her," Nala said.

And instead he looked to the ground because in Nala, he could see her mother. Their features were so similar and to think that he was any part of her had been a mistake. All he could see in Nala was Sarafina, her conviction, her strength, her will, and it almost bowled him over, burrowed within the emptiness of knowing she was dead and gone, murdered by his once and only ally, and these emotions were so foreign to him that he was struck dumb and couldn't think of a single thing to say; a single action to extricate himself, and when he next looked up after what had seemed to be minutes, Nala had retracted her claws, had closed her eyes and was swaying dangerously on her feet.

All he could think to do was steady her, to use his own broken and scarred body to keep her from falling, and he planted himself firmly next to her, and felt her weight against his side, her fur warm, and he realized in that moment, that she was all he had left; Sarafina and Nala had only ever really been the two things in his life that had belonged to him, and he had treated them as if they didn't matter, as if they were disposable tools that would always be at his beck and call for whenever he needed them.

His daughter leaned heavily against his side, and he wondered if she was about to collapse. Though his fur bristled, and every nerve in his body urged him to go after the he hyenas, he remained where he was next to her.

"Nala," he said quietly, and nudged her head. Hadn't he only wanted to matter? Hadn't he only wanted someone to look to him, to depend upon him, and here she was leaning against him choosing him over everyone in the pride; all the lionesses she had grown up, everyone she had known. Maybe he had been the closest thing, maybe she was delirious, either way she had chosen him, her father. Something lifted within him, and even with his damaged leg he could support her. Someone looked up to him, someone needed him. And perhaps it was still that egotistical adoration, he didn't know, but it felt different, something that extended outside of himself that he couldn't put a paw on.

And with slow steps he led her away from the watering hole. All the while she stayed next to him, her head leaning against his shoulder, her feet dragging, and when her knees would buckle, he would lean lower, supporting her until she was able to get her feet back under her, and they would continue the slow move back towards Priderock.

For once there was no thought in it, he didn't do it for any other reason than she needed him to be there; without him she would fall, and he kept his line of sight only forward enough to see the next step. His paw and then hers. Dark fur and then light fur. His own still burnt to black, mingled with grays, and then hers creamy unmarred. Another paw came into his vision, and halted their movement. He looked up to see Simba, his face twisted in anger. "Get away from her," Simba said and growled.

"She'll fall," Scar said.

"I'll help her. You've done enough," he spat, and Simba pushed Scar out of the way.

How cold it was even under the pale sun without her next to him. His limbs were shaking, and he gasped for air as Simba led her away. He felt so lost, more lost than he ever had in his life, alone in that field surrounded on either side by the pride he failed. Sarafina, who had died because he had lived, and Nala, the only thing he had made that was worth something and both of them now gone, out of his reach. And the emotions were a maelstrom that wiped out all logical thought, something he had never fathomed, and he was overcome trying to navigate them with no idea of how to. It was so foreign to him that maybe only the death of his mother had elicited something close to this, but that had been years and years ago, and he had been a cub, one that wasn't completely in control of his emotions at that point, and had been struck stupid by the grief he had felt at Uru's loss; no idea how to cope with such devastation.

And now that feeling had returned. It had to be overcome. It was a weakness that robbed him of his intelligence, that stripped him of any semblance of wit, rendered him dumb and lost.

**A/N So the rhino poop really hits the fan in this chapter. I was actually a bit hesitant to post this as a few of you had mentioned your worry over Sarafina... I hated to do it! Really I did. Don't kill me. But I've had this planned from the beginning and will push this story into the final act. This is the beginning of the end. So, if you're still reading I'd love to hear your opinions. **


	15. Chapter 15

"I'll kill them," Sarabi said moved with a speed that belied her age.

"Wait," Scar said and limped after her.

She stopped and scowled. "You did this. In some way you are responsible. I don't need or want your help."

"You'll take on a whole army by yourself?" he said. "It's suicide."

And then as if an idea came to her she slowed and looked at him. "We'll give them what they want." The rest of the pride came to surround him. He lurched back, realizing their intent.

"You don't know what they want," he said. "It's not only me." His tail lashed as they formed a circle around him. _It was a stupid move on the part of the hyenas_, he thought. Any chance of negotiation they may have had with Simba was now a moot point with the murder of Sarafina. If it had been just to get revenge, just to see him torn to pieces by the pride, or he suspected as Shenzi thought to have him delivered to them, it had been a plan made myopically. Was his death really that much of a priority to them that they would risk any future peaceful involvement with the Pride Lands? Or perhaps, it had been a sign: look how easily we killed one of your pride members. What's to stop us for killing you all, taking over? It was Shenzi who would be leading the army. Shenzi was quick-witted, and this latter idea was most likely what she had in mind.

"Don't go," he said, ignoring the angry growl from the circle that surround him. "That's what they want," he said. "There are hundreds of them, and twenty of you, the odds are greatly against any one of you surviving."

"You survived," Sarabi said. "Like you always do."

"It was luck and a little thinking. I was able to reach Shenzi. She's their leader now, and she won't be as easy to reach this time.

"I can do it," Sarabi said. "We're growing stronger by the day, and they weaker. They don't stand a chance."

"You're being a fool, Sarabi," he said. She lashed out at him, and he barely avoided her claws.

"Don't talk back to me. Not now, not anymore," she said.

"Please, listen to me," and he heard the words as if they weren't this own, as if they came from somewhere else. He didn't beg. He didn't grovel. But everything had veered so far from his initial plan that he had lost his trajectory, as if the ground had torn open leaving a wide gaping hole, and the answer eluded him. They didn't trust him. They wouldn't listen to him. Wouldn't heed anything he said. And yet, regaining his power would be pointless if everyone were dead. If he survived, and he doubted he would, he would be in the same position of exile, a lame, aging lion, with no pride, with no mate, with no daughter, and it suddenly wasn't a game of kings, but one of survival, and he knew he had to change his plan, adapt once more to the situation. If it meant allowing Simba his place in his throne for the time being that was how it would have to be. They needed someone to push them in the right direction, to break it down into a logical maneuver that they could then enact. They couldn't go charging in fueled by emotions. They would be slaughtered.

"Listen," he said. He looked to Sarafina. And the words were hard to find. Never before had such emotion clouded his logic, and it was hard to see through the haze, to project the power into his voice, to make himself the authority he had always wished to be when ruling.

"Why should we listen to you?" Sarabi said. "What good have you ever done?" Her voice approaching a roar, guttural and thick with emotion. "Because of you I've lost two of the closest friends I've ever had. They're gone, Taka," she said. "Don't you realize that? They're gone."

Taka. The word threw him. Took him back to when they were cubs. Mufasa pulling him to the side of the miniature Pride Rock where he had Sarafina and Sarabi all played. "Look what will be ours one day," his brother said in imitation of Ahadi. Their father had given them a similar speech the other day. Brought them to the tip of Pride Rock and had them look out over the savanna.

"You mean, yours."

"You'll always be by my side, Taka," Mufasa said, and nudged him with his shoulder. For once, he didn't know what to say. Just looked to his big brother, his fur as golden as the sun sending it's rays across the vast savanna, and his as dark as the night that replaced it when the sun disappeared, and he remembered then that he had thought, maybe there was a place for both of them. But it had been before Ahadi declared that Mufasa would be the next king.

When Mufasa couldn't draw him out of his thoughts, Sarafina often could. There was a gentleness to her, but also a strength, she didn't challenge his position, but she also knew how to talk to him in a way that didn't infuriate him like almost every else did. She had this way of getting under his fur that he couldn't explain. Like she knew everything about him when he thought he must have appeared inscrutable. He didn't understand it, but it made him want to know her. Want to know how she could tell so much about him, his thoughts, his feelings, what was causing his unease, without him ever having to open his mouth. It was like the sixth sense that Mufasa said Rafiki believed in. Some lions just knew things. Some animals could see into the future. Some animals knew what would happen. But Rafiki said it was rare in lions, they lived too close to the present, and their tempers kept them from introspective thought.

Scar had wondered what kind of creature he really was then because all he did was introspect, but then again he often did feel different from the other lions, and he wondered if that was part of the reason that his father overlooked him. He was too quiet, too calculated, too cowardly. But he found that didn't matter, he didn't need brute strength to get what he needed, already he found that he could manipulate his friends. He realized that he possessed a power different from his brother, one that seemed even more effective.

Sarabi waited for him to say something. "It's not a good idea," he said. "We need a plan. They may be stupid, but their advantage lies in their numbers. Enough to bring down all of us if we don't think this through." He moved to stop her progress. She stepped forward meaning to move away from him, but he intercepted her movement.

"I have to do something." she said. "I can't let them get away with this."

"And we won't he" he said. "Sarabi," and for the first time in many months she caught his eye and held his gaze. "We'll do something," he said. Better than something. They would decimate them. He would lead them, gain their respect, and take back the throne. But he was getting ahead of himself. For the moment, he needed to rein everyone in. "Talk to-" he fumbled over the word, "the king," he said.

"Simba." Sarabi, let out a long breath, the energy that fueled her seaming to dissipate, leaving her small and tired.

"Talk to your son," Scar said. _That deluded furball_. "Where was he when order was being lost, his pride running amuck like ostriches with their heads cut off.

XXX

Simba led Nala back to the cave. She wouldn't look at him. She kept her eyes on the ground, her tail trailing in the dirt.

"Nala," he tried. But his words went unheeded. She continued to walk forward and only stopped when she came to the wall of the cave. And he noticed in her lack of movement, not so much a refusal to look at him, but it was if I wasn't even there – a ghost.

She moved as if in a trance. Like an old exiled lion, Rafiki had had found wandering the plains when Simba was a cub. He wandered aimlessly, his coat gray and torn, obviously a great king, or a terrible tyrant, but now rendered speechless, unknown. Rafiki tried to intervene, tried everything he knew, but he couldn't pull him back. He ate as if something told him to, drank, slept, with always a vacant stare focused somewhere over the horizon, and then he passed through with that same slow pace away from the Pridelands, and only the Great Kings knew to where.

The story had scared Simba in a way he couldn't understand as a cub, a great stretch of something before him- whispers in the shadows of the cave. If one lion could lose himself completely could it happen to him too, could it happen to his Dad, to his mom? What it must have been like to be that lion all alone, no family, no name, nothing. And that darkness welled up inside of him. Nala, where was she, did she know herself, where had she gone?

"Nala," he tried again, and stopped by her side. He nudged her shoulder with his head. "Nala, look at me. Come back," he said. "Please come back." But her stare remained focused on the cave wall. Simba turned in the same direction trying to see what she was seeing, but it looked the same as ever, the stone gray and slightly damp. He put a paw against it, cold.

He was alone. It drove the air from his chest, made him take in deep gasps of air trying to quell it, trying to fight down the raising terror that made his fur stand on edge, made his eyes water, made the whole cave seem as if it was closing in on him. He pushed himself against Nala and rested his head against her back, and there, there was her heartbeat, there was the smallest rise and fall of her back as she breathed.

"Please, Nala," he said and licked her shoulder. "I need you. I need you. I know I haven't said it." And the words came so easily to him when she wasn't there to hear them. "I haven't said it because I've been afraid. I fear myself. I fear the things I think. I fear this anger I feel inside of me that shouldn't be there. I don't know what to do. " He whispered it so quietly that the words just ghosted across his lips. "Nala." He whimpered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I thought of you as anything, but yourself. I'm sorry I saw him in you when I was so afraid that he was a part of me too. Please, just come back, and I'll make everything right. I've been so lost," he said to the silence.

"Simba," he jolted and thought for a second that Nala had spoken, but when he looked at her she still had the same vacant expression. Instead, Sarabi entered the cave followed closely by Scar. The other lionesses stood outside talking among themselves. It took all the energy Simba had to part from Nala, and his bones seemed to have turned to brittle savanna grass that any little movement would break. "I don't know what's wrong with her," he said to his mother. "She won't move, she won't talk."

"She's in shock," Scar said.

"I didn't ask you," something hot and molten was growing in his stomach. He refused to acknowledge Scar.

"Simba, we all need you right now," his mother said. He could hear the worry in her voice, taste it like old fetid meat. Here he was the king, and they had come to him for answers, and he could barely support himself, barely think beyond the situation.

"We need to organize," Scar said.

Simba continued to look at his paws. Scar took a step closer, and Simba could see his paw from the corner of his eye.

"Simba, "he said, "we need to do something now before they make another move."

Here was Scar. This was his plan. He must have done it. He knew it would destroy Nala. It would destroy him if Nala wasn't by his side. The rage in him grew, licking at his throat, moving upwards as if setting his whole body aflame. It crowded out his thoughts, leaving nothing but sorrow for what he had lost, what Nala had lost, what the lion in front of him was inches from having. He drew his claws. He could hear his mother's voice somewhere beyond him, and something touched his shoulder. He backed away. He saw himself attacking his uncle.

"Simba, we need you," his mother said, and the words broke through, and he let out a loud sobbing gasp of air, and all the rage sank back down below. He breathed, clearing his head. His mother was standing in front of him, her nose almost touching his. "We need you," she said slowly. Scar had taken a step back, and was closer to the entrance of the cave. Simba looked at his paws, his nails had dug into the floor leaving deep white gouges against the granite.

**A/N Waffle Hyena and TMNT thanks so much for your reviews on the last chapter! **

**WH, glad you find the relationship between Simba and Nala to be realistic. It's a great relief to know that the way I've interpreted their relationship is working for you. **

** As always I'm very appreciative of reviews, critiques, and comments. **


	16. Chapter 16

Rafiki couldn't awaken Nala. She stood motionless, her gaze locked on the stone of the cave. Two lionesses stood guard over Sarafina's body. Simba heard Scar's voice rising above the commotion, echoing through the cave and the others quieted as he spoke.

"There's been a heinous crime committed," he said. "The hyenas," and paused letting his words wash over the other lions. "The hyenas who destroyed our Pridelands, who devoured our food with their insatiable appetites, have once again intruded on our land, taking something all the more precious and important, the life of one our pride."

Simba couldn't believe it, his audacity. The hyenas had been Scar's allies, he had let them in. He stepped out of the cave and came to stand next to Scar. "Stop talking," he said abruptly.

"Simba, it's been a tough day," Scar said.

The patronizing tone made him growl. Sarabi came to stand next to her son. "Scar has a plan," she said. He couldn't read his mother's voice. He wanted to know what she thought of that. Was it a good or a bad thing? And that he couldn't read her meaning worried him, made him think that she was siding with Scar, and all of sudden he had a feeling that they didn't trust him. They were looking at him askance, as if in some way he had been responsible for things that had happened. Worried, creased expressions. If he had gone looking for Sarafina as soon as Nala brought it to his attention maybe she would still be alive. They were saying he was inexperienced.

They were falling into normalcy. Scar had been their king for many seasons, it would be easy to listen to him, and he spoke in a way that Simba hadn't mastered. He drew attention, he guided, he convinced. He manipulated.

Simba felt that his protestations would be perceived as the mewling of a cub. That's how they saw him, a cub, not a leader, something to be pitied. But their eyes still lingered on him, waiting. He hadn't provided them any answers, so they were turning once more to his uncle.

Scar had seen his opportunity. Simba remained in the cave attempting to console Nala. While the lionesses gathered around him. "Simba is not fit to provide answers." Scar said. "He is too emotionally invested, clouded by his love, his emotions, and he doesn't have the experience. His knowledge of matters of life and death are lacking, and that's why I propose that we create a plan to infiltrate and end the reign of terror the hyenas have been casting over us these last few years."

"And yes," he said, stopping the dialogue that had risen after his declaration. "I fell victim to their manipulation. I allowed them to live on our land, to use our resources until they were exhausted. For that, I will take the blame, but there are other things I will not." He said, his tail lashing behind him. He reveled in their attention. They watched him, everyone.

"And what do you propose?" Sarabi said and stepped forward. "Scar, you killed Mufasa. It doesn't matter if you have a plan. We will not listen to you. Because of you Sarafina is dead. If you had never sided with the hyenas none of this would have happened."

_Mufasa, Mufasa_, he thought, it always came back to his damn brother. Clearly, the doubt he had tried to implant in Nala hadn't taken, or she had kept the thoughts to herself, but they still believed in their child king. "Hindsight," he said. "I made a truce, a pact between two species that was meant to bring us together, that was meant to harbor peace and alliance between us."

"One that nearly destroyed us," Sarabi said.

"I made a questionable choice, but it's in the past." He needed to divert the topic back to the hyenas. "And now, I wish to correct my wrongs. I will free us from the fear they are attempting to impose upon us. We will avenge our own." He looked to them. "Would you like to know the truth?"

"If only that were a possibility," Sarabi said. "I fear anything you tell us cannot be trusted."

He took a step forward, his temper rising. "The hyena's were responsible for the stampede that killed Mufasa. Just before Shenzi was going to kill me, she revealed this to me."

Murmuring rose between the lionesses. "Why didn't she kill you?" Sarabi said. "If she spoke to you, how do we know this isn't a plan concocted between you two? A bid for power?" Scar had expected the question.

"Somehow you survived. Why was that?" Everyone murmured in agreement.

"I fought them," he said. "I fought them with everything I had," and the thought struck him. "It was as if Mufasa were by my side in that moment, giving me strength, pushing me forward. I heard his voice Sarabi, the Great Kings came to me with their wisdom, bid me to fight on, told me I was needed. They must have meant for this. They must have wanted me to stay to lead an attack against the hyenas, to save our pride."

He couldn't think about that darkness of the night, and as the lie left him, he knew that a part of him wished that had been what had happened. And yet here he stood without the aid of the kings, of his own force, and will, and wit, he had survived something insurmountable, sure to kill any other lion in the same situation. Had Mufasa been by his side? The lie started to become the truth, insidious, slipping into the space between reality and conjecture within his own mind, lodging there, convincing him that maybe it was a possibility, even as the he rebelled against the inscrutable spiritual world.

"Sarabi, Mufasa told me, 'Remember the maned flower,' I didn't know what he meant. He said only you would understand." The memory had come quickly to him, a past moment that he shared with Sarafina. A secret of Sarabi's that Sarafina had told him.

Sarabi stopped, her eyes growing wide. "How do you know..."

"I know, because, Mufasa told me. He trusts that I can lead you. He trusts that I have a solution. I knew in that moment that I had been given a second chance. That I had to stay, against all threats to my life, and protect the pride I grew up in. Sarabi, for this one time will you trust me? Will you work with me to avenge Sarafina?" The lie had come so easily, the whole story concocting itself in a flash, and he had watched Sarabi's features change. The maned flower had thrown her, until that point she had most decidedly doubted him, but now he could tell he had her. And if he had Sarabi, he had the rest of them. He tried to keep the grin from his face. And continued to wait for her answer. He heard the padding of feet behind him, and didn't have to turn to know that Simba now stood next to him.

Simba," Scar said, while ducking his head in mock submission, "I was just telling your mother of how Mufasa came to me. How he has instructed me to take back the Pridelands."

"You can't believe him," Simba said and stepped past Scar, stopping in front of his mother.

Sarabi remained silent, her eyes locked on her son. "He told me something that - that only Mufasa would have known. I believe him Simba."

Simba took a step back. It couldn't be true. If his mother believed him - the lion who had taken Mufasa from her - if she believed him, what did it mean, she was backing him, supporting him over her own son. He didn't know what to say.

"Scar," he said and turned to face his uncle. "Leave," he said and the anger building in his chest upon seeing his unaffected expression drew the roar from him. It boomed across Pride Rock and silenced the murmuring from the lionesses surrounding them.

"Simba," Sarabi said and ushered him to the side.

He didn't want to move, but the warmth of his mother next to him calmed him a bit. He was so exhausted underneath all of it, he kept thinking of Nala, of her vacant stare, that maybe he had lost her forever, and it was all his fault.

Scar remained where he was, and then turned back to the pride. "We need to plan immediately. Now, I think we should split into teams based on strengths. "

As Simba followed his mother back from the crowd, Scar's words followed him. Scar was a better king, he hadn't been stupefied and incapable of acting, he had taken action, cut straight to the problem, was working on solving it.

"Simba ," Sarabi said, and he lifted his head to catch her eyes. "Sarafina, she's gone," and the heaviness of the words seemed to weigh her down, and Simba for the first time noticed how old she had gotten. The gray hair around her paws and nose that he hadn't noticed before were evident in the sun cascading over the bracken. Her eyes were tired too, not as bright as he remembered, dull from years of exhaustion and toil and loss.

First, her husband killed, then her son presumed dead, and then when a hint of normalcy seemed withing reach, Sarafina - the only one to stand by her side during Scar's reign, her childhood friend - murdered. And he marveled at her composure, how only the tightest of scrutiny revealed the toll. He despised himself for leaving for her; for seeking a life of ease when she had been left here, alone. He had slipped so easily into the bohemian life with Timon and Pumba that he rarely thought of his mother. He assumed she would despise him because Scar would have told what had in the gorge that day.

"Simba, I hate the idea as much as you. You must believe me." And he listened to her, biting back his words. He feared what he would say, because he couldn't understand how she could align herself with Scar after everything, how she had forgiven him for what he had done.

"We don't need him," he said.

"I'd like to say the same thing, but he knows the hyenas better than any of us. He's known them since he was a cub. If we stand any chance at defeating them we need him. I hate the idea of siding with him. But it's a necessity. It won't be for long. Only until they're defeated."

"You don't know what he'll do after that. If we give him any semblance of power, he'll take it. He won't let it go. I know that. That's how he thinks. We can't give him any leeway. He's already leading us all astray, and everyone believes him. I can't understand it."

Simba fought to control his words, to keep his temper reigned in. He couldn't have another outburst. It made him look ridiculous, like the cub he suspected they already saw him as. In some way she was right, he thought. He did have the closest relationship with the hyenas, he knew them in and out, but Simba couldn't abdicate power to Scar, he couldn't allow him to have sway over the pride, not if it meant Scar saw himself as anything more than the lowly distrustful, manipulative lion he was at the core.

And Simba would never see him as anything more; there was nothing that could convince him. Through his mother's pleading it was clear she didn't think he was up to the task, and maybe he wasn't. He had lived a life of ease, free of strife, eating grubs. He had lost definition, become something other than a lion, and though he hated the idea, he knew they needed someone who could lead, who had influence, and if it wasn't to assuage his mother he would have laughed at the idea, would have banished Scar from the pride lands, if he didn't think with s sickening feeling that everyone wouldn't agree. He didn't know what would happen if he refused his mother's request. If the task were left solely to him, and if he were to fail, how could he ever forgive himself, how could Sarabi look at him with anything but disdain?He had left her. He had failed her once, already.

He didn't know how to be a king; he didn't know the first thing. But perhaps Sarabi did, perhaps she should lead, and that's what she was doing he realized. She was making a decision.

"It should be you," he said.

She gave him a curious expression.

"You're still the queen."

"I know, Simba," she said. "But you'll be the king one day, and I can't always be here for you. But I'll do what I can."

"And you think this right?" he said, a strange relief filling him.

"It's not right, but for now, it's what we have to do. I know him. I can tell his moods, his thoughts, and if I see him, or sense that he's thinking about turning against us, I'll end him," she said.

Simba ealized in that moment all the things he didn't know about her, just like Nala, he had been thrust back into a life that was already charging ahead like an angry rhinoceros. Life had gone on without him. He didn't know them at all, and yet his mother stood before him, willing to fight, to put herself in harms way to protect him, to hold up the ideal they had shared as a family.

"I won't let him harm us again," she said. "I won't let him take anyone else away from our family. I know I lost faith in your survival. I should have gone and looked for you."

"I should have come back," Simba said.

"We both have our regrets," Sabari said. "But we can't lay idle in them. I won't settle for the loss of anymore of my loved ones. I won't stand for it. I will do everything in my power to protect you, Simba. We'll bring Nala back."

_Sarafina had been her friend,_ Simba thought. They had all grown up together. It would be like losing Nala. He marveled at his mother's ability to keep a clear head. How she had managed all alone for so many years, and how she now stood before him, strong, willful, and with a plan.

And in a way her strength became his own, flowed through his tired muscles, his aching head, lifted the darkness that had been settling somewhere deep inside of him and defining his thoughts. "We can," he said. And he looked at his mother and knew that he loved her, needed her.

"They need someone to believe in," Sarabi said. "It needs to be you," she said. "I can still see my cub, ready for an adventure, barely able to sit through bath time."

Simba laughed at the thought. He remembered squirming to get away from his mother so that he and Nala could go exploring.

"You'll stand with me, won't you Simba?" Sarabi said.

"As long as you'll stand with me."

Sarabi nodded and together they returned to the assembly gathered on Priderock.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N Hope everyone had a good New Years! **

"Training will commence immediately," Scar said and looked over the lionesses that were gathered in front of him. They were tired, weak, thin, still recovering from the famine and drought. He looked for Nala. She could train them. "Where's Nala," he said, not seeing her face in the crowd. "Ah, Simba," he said, when he came to stand next to him. "Nice of you to join us."

Simba didn't reply. His appearance was different in a way that Scar couldn't pinpoint. He stood taller, perhaps, not a defeated slouch to his shoulders.

"Scar has a plan," Simba said addressing the crowd.

Scar tilted his head to the side. "Then I take it you are on board?"

"I need to hear it," Simba said. "But, for now, I'm willing to listen."

"Well, well," Scar said and looked out once more over the crowed, a shot of something white hot and molten moved down his spine making his fur stand on end. He had their complete attention, how good it felt to be back in power, and for once not with an empty stomach clouding his thoughts. "Well, in the few agonizing moments of your absence," he said, "I've been thinking of a plan. A strategic approach to the defeat of those slobbering mongrels, something that will put them in their place."

"Oh please, Scar, we're holding our breaths, get on with it," Sarabi said.

A flash of anger, but he let it go. "We need to train. We need to prepare. Hyenas are a drooling bunch of fools, but what they lack in intelligence, they make up in numbers, and they have the power to decimate us."

"I could have told you that," Sarabi said and there were murmurs of agreement. "Tell us, why we need you Scar. Tell us why you're indispensable."

Scar looked at Sarabi and then to Simba, who stood next to his mother, his features hard, closed, his eyes fixed on Scar's. The answers evaded him, the tide was turning, he was losing the short meters of ground he had stolen out from under Simba. The wrong word and they would lose all faith in him. What would his brother do? He hated the thought instantly. He wasn't his brother. He was better. "They want me," he said. "And in my ploy I will appear to give myself up to them. It will provide you with enough time to attack. We will lure them out, pick them off one by one."

"Why would you do that?" Simba spoke for the first time. "Why would you give yourself up?"

Scar caught and held his eye. "Atonement," he said.

Simba didn't say anything, his features didn't change, still hard and drawn. Scar thought he saw something pass between Sarabi and Simba, but it wasn't much, a slight turn of her head in her son's direction.

"If we're going to do this, we're going to work together," Simba said.

Scar didn't like the authority in Simba's voice, didn't like the thought that Simba would stand equal in power with him. But the idea that his nephew would even agree to anything in the first place surprised him, made him question what tactic he might be playing at. If, however, it meant he had less opposition, then why not? If he could show Simba to be incompetent in his ruling, it might be worth it.

"Of course," he said. "I wouldn't dare decree order without the consent of the king." He dipped his head in mock reverence. "I wanted Nala to train them," he said and looked over the lionesses. He saw Simba's face darken, the light catch his eyes as he dipped his head towards the ground.

"She can't," he said.

"And why's that," Scar asked. "Where is she?"

"You care now do you?"

All of a sudden there was worry he couldn't explain, it seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, creeping through his conscious, blinding him for a moment of all rational thought. He was worried for her, it dawned upon him. The idea bothered him; He couldn't allow such sentiment.

Simba was surprised my his Uncle's reaction, as if a great change had overcome his countenance. It had to be an act. Scar didn't love anyone but himself. The idea that Scar had offered to give himself to the hyenas had actually been the same one that Simba had been fantasizing about. It was the easiest solution. The hyenas had failed to kill Scar, and now that's probably what they wanted. Killing Sarafina had been a lure set for his Uncle, but if Scar was upset by her death, Simba couldn't tell. He would love to hand his uncle over, be rid of him and the hyenas in the same instance.

But Scar did have a point, they had tasted power, had survived and delighted in the Pride Lands, bled it dry, and now when it was returning to its former growth, they would be anxious to have it back, to take from the lion's their rightful land. Who were they to have it, Simba thought, thrashing his tails against the stones.

The Pride Lands belonged to the lions. And yet, he doubted that conviction. It tore at his attempt to hate them. Made him wonder what was so special about his species that they should dominate the richest, most fertile land. Because they were strong, because they had taken it? Because all of the kings beforehand watched over it from the night sky, granted it to their people, rewarded the good with sustenance and life, and the evil with putrefaction and disease, condemned his uncle's rule, and as it seemed, now, blessed his? Though the land wasn't healing as fast as he hoped, prey was still scarce, everyone was still hungry, and danger lurked from an unseen enemy. What did they think of him? A lost cub, unknowledgeable, and doubting their wisdom? It was a tenuous connection he held with them, and the last time he had tried to speak to his father, the stars hadn't answered, wouldn't tell him what to do with his uncle. Was it a test? Simba closed his eyes and wavered on his feet, Scar's final words eluding him.

As custom, Sarafina's funeral would be held when the Great Lions took to the sky, when the pitch of dark would blot out her wounds. He would wait until that time, a bone heavy tiredness leading him to the cave, where dusk reached its bloody fingers through the lichen and dirt, and the sun burnt itself away.

Nala wouldn't look at him, wouldn't acknowledge him. He dozed next to her and felt alone and couldn't breach the barrier between wakefulness and the abyss of darkness. Just out of the reach of his claws, but it evaded him, ran with frantic hoof beats away from his grasp and left him with the warmth of his mate next to his side. He had lost her, he thought. She was gone. And he got up and moved to stand on the jutting precipice to look out over the land, but stopped when he heard shifting stones as if someone had had the same idea, but when he looked around he didn't see anyone. Everyone's scent was mingled together and it was impossible to tell. The Stars were clouded and no matter how long Simba sat there trying to discern their shape they wouldn't appear. "Father," he whispered, the word like burnt ash on his tongue. And when he felt nothing, and heard nothing, he went back into the cave, and stayed, waiting silently for when his mother would come to find him, and they would lay Sarafina to rest.


End file.
